


Whispers in Corners

by esama



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M, Not Season/Series 02 Compliant, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, The Deathly Hallows, medium Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 64,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything started with a stumble - his new life in a new world as well as his surprisingly successful career as a medium.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Whispers in Corners](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7896457) by [johari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johari/pseuds/johari)



> Originally posted on fanfiction.net on 09/06/2011  
> Proofread by Darlene and Rebecca

It is unnecessary to visit the scenes. They bring him there anyway, and he lets them because it helps cement the shroud of mystery surrounding his so called ability. Can't be too obvious, even with occultism – if it’s too precise, too easily accessed, they would grow suspicious. Or so he imagines anyway. Suspicious, or greedy. He can't have either, because both greed and suspicion breed trouble – questions and curiosity and in the worst case, investigation. So he takes the offered vagueness and makes it seem like a necessity, like a rule.

"What is your husband's name?" Harry asks, eyeing the room. It seems normal – your average bedroom; bed big enough for two, decorated sparsely with closets and a drawer, two small beside tables at each side of the bed. Bland curtains, no portraits or paintings – pictures on top of the drawer, on beside tables. Children and grandchildren. People have certainly died in worse places.

"David," the woman – Edna Wilkins, an elderly woman with white hair and beige shirt, bony hands and a wedding ring she keeps fiddling with – says, while wringing her hands and looking around. There’s a sheen of moistness in her eyes, like she expects to cry any moment and is getting ready for it. Probably is too. "David Timothy Wilkins."

"David," Harry murmurs. He feels a moment of self doubt - should he speak the name slow and thoughtful like scenting it out, tasting the syllables? Again unnecessary, complete and pure theatrics. But it was expected – and would have been yet another way to strengthen the mysticism. The wizard he had been would've laughed himself sore, witnessing it. But then, the whole scene would've made that young soon-to-be-Auror laugh.

"Right," Harry says again and then tucks his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. The ring is heavy and bulky, but it slips onto his middle finger with practiced ease, almost jumping on. Probably is too – all the Hallows are like that, they delight in being used. The Wand in particular, but the ring is certainly not far behind, always eager to slip around his finger. Not all the way, though, just past the first joint, that's far enough and easy as anything to remove.

The wizard rubs the cracked stone gently with his thumb in the cover of his pocket, ready to turn it. Letting his fingers stop, thump ready, he looks at the old woman. "Are you ready, Mrs. Wilkins?" he asks gently and when she hesitates, tugging at her wedding band like it was burning her, he smiles kindly. "How much do you know of my… methods?"

"I… I heard that you can talk to them, and that it is… it is real, but that is it," she says, and brings her shaking fingers up, to touch her lips and then quickly withdrawing, like wishing to cover her mouth, but not at the same time. Nervous twitches, Harry is getting used to seeing those. "Will… will I _see_ him?"

"No. And I'm afraid you won't be able to hear or sense him in any way. He won't possess me or anything like that either, so he won't be speaking through me," Harry adds, because people expect that. Unless he warns them they look at him, expecting to see familiar gestures and postures and he can't deliver. "He will come here, and I can talk to him and I can tell you what he is saying. I will be, in a way, working as a translator between the two of you."

"Oh. Okay," Mrs. Wilkins says and frowns, giving him a glance that has a hint of suspicion in it. He doesn't work in the so called self-explanatory forms of a medium or mystic, he knows, but there is only so much stupid pretence he can manage. He won't ooh and aah and make dramatic gestures and speeches about reaching out to touch the beyond, and though it would've been beneficial, he won't bolster up his act with eerie voices and hands thrown up, eyes spinning backwards. He does still have a sense of self respect, after all.

"I will call him now," Harry says, because if he gives it time she will ask more questions and he's not there to explain to her the intricacies of necromancy. Not that he could, even if she asked. So instead he smiles, closes his eyes and thinks of the name, _David Timothy Wilkins_ , keeping in mind Edna Wilkins, the flat, the house, willing forth the right spirit – so many dead share names, they get confused unless he is specific.

The Gaunt ring with its cracked Stone of Resurrection turns on his finger easily and silently. Once, twice, three times in total.

When Harry opens his eyes, there are three people in the room. David Wilkins is an old man – dead for about two months, according to his wife, grey haired with a moustache and milky blue eyes according to the photograph she had shown Harry. The spirit looks young, though – a handsome dark haired man in his twenties, in fact, with a horrible haircut and not a hair on his face, wearing the uniform of a fireman. Probably had been in his life – people often identify themselves by their duties, the dead especially.

"Oh, you silly little nag," Mr. Wilkins says to his wife fondly, and Harry smiles. The man seems exasperated, but not angry. It's good to summon the sort of dead who weren't too cross with him for doing it.

"He's here, Mrs. Wilkins," Harry says, indicating the spot where the young-old dead man stands, with his helmet tucked beneath his arm, a smudge of soot on his cheek. "And he's calling you a silly little nag," Harry adds, because the truth is in details, echo of supernatural reality in details.

Edna Wilkins gasps loudly, her shaking hands coming up quickly and covering her mouth as the tears spill down her wrinkled cheeks. "Oh, _Davey_."

As he begins to intermediate the exchange of platitudes and last goodbyes between the separated couple, Harry knows he will get well paid for this particular job.

It's a testament to his new life that he doesn't even find it wrong or disgusting to ask for that payment anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

He lives in a small flat above a noisy pub, with a single room and kitchenette and barely no bathroom to speak of. Being a medium pays well, but only when he finds the right customer. And since he doesn't go out looking and the amount of people who know about him is small and limited it's a rare day he gets a good customer.

Harry doesn't mind, though. Being a medium is new for him, new and rare and strange and he doesn't yet know what is and isn't safe to do. He doesn't really need that much either. He has a roof over his head and after some spells the flat is clean of rats and roaches and all other pests. It takes some delicate transfiguration to make the mattress usable, and the kitchenette more functional, but he doesn't mind. It gives him something to do, in between.

And there is a lot of in between. It would've been easier if there hadn't been – if he’d managed to settle himself down to actual job instead of the one he had somehow gotten for himself. But he had tried. Working construction wasn't for him – too skinny, not to mention that most of the time he had no idea what to do, no concept of what went where or why. Assisting at a shop had been easier, but not that good either. He was a bit awkward with customers and with an eleven year old's maths – and no practice at it since – he is not good at counting, not at all. And everything else since was just one failure after another.

As far as honest legal jobs go, he is useless. And the rare few he might be some good at, he doesn't want to try. Gardening, housekeeping, cleaning… he’s had enough of all of that for a lifetime and will not resort to any of it, not unless there is absolutely no other choice. Too many bad memories.

Not that any of them matter much here.

It had started by accident, the medium thing. Harry had been looking for a place to stay, meeting some people renting out the cheapest flats in London. Poor, worse, bad. Then he ran into Oliver Fergusson, a middle aged man with shifty eyes who kept looking around the flat he was showing like he was expecting it to attack him – giving especially nervous looks towards one spot where carpet covered the wooden floor. It had made Harry curious, and when the man left Harry alone to answer the phone, the wizard pulled the carpet off, to reveal nothing at first, and then finding brown smears between the floorboards. Dried blood.

The Stone of Resurrection found its way to his finger almost by itself, but Harry had been too curious, too bored, to not do it. He hadn't known he could summon people he himself had no personal connection to, not until that point. Not needing a name is a new thing too, a surprising one. But as he thought of the stain and the flat, wanting to know who had died there, the dead appeared. A young woman in her twenties, beautiful.

"I was a drug addict," she explained to him without a shred shame or worry, standing on the carpet hiding the spot where she had died. "I ran out, and people do some stupid things when they're in need. I ate all the meds I had, washed it down with all the alcohol I had and in the insanity that followed, I stabbed myself six times. Thought there was something in my chest, something moving. Not my proudest moment, I know, but a way to go is a way to go."

"Ah," Harry said, and tilted his head. He asked a couple of curious questions, learning her name and what she had done for a living and that she wasn't bitter about life, not anymore. She preferred death – the urges were gone, the bitterness of not knowing the future, of not having a direction, all needless things. Death was more peaceful.

Harry didn't take the flat, and as he left he clapped Mr. Fergusson on his shoulder. "Don't worry. Annie isn't around anymore – she prefers the afterlife." And as the man stared at him with wide, borderline terrified eyes unable to say a thing, Harry slipped out, thinking about the Stone and summoning the dead and mostly about looking through the papers for another flat. By the end of the day, he had forgotten Oliver Fergusson completely.

Two days later, Fergusson somehow tracked him down. A call waited for him when he came down from his room in the cheap bed-sit, from the landlord. Fergusson was nervous and twitchy on the phone, but also oddly excited. "If you don't have… if it was just possible, I… there is this woman. Her daughter died recently. If you could…"

Harry went out more because of curiosity than anything else. It turned out that Mr. Fergusson's friend, Sofia Gilmore, had a delinquent daughter, Tina, who had stolen all her jewellery and money and ran away with it. Tina had been found dead – a car crash – a couple of days later, but no one found the money or the jewellery she had taken. Harry didn't wonder why Tina ran away after meeting Mrs. Gilmore – she was a cold eyed, stiff faced woman with a permanent sneer on her face and a deep rooted loathing towards her daughter.

Harry had, however, done as she asked, and summoned Tina to the woman's kitchen. Tina came to him not as the sixteen year old she had been, but as an eight year old girl in torn jeans and a mud stained blouse, grinning widely with a gap in her teeth. Mrs. Gilmore's sneer got only wider and sharper as Harry kneeled by her child-teenager daughter, but Harry hadn't much cared.

"I put it in a secret place. I didn't need it all, but Mum didn't deserve any of it. They were my Grandma's, you know, and she was real nice. Mum though, she's no good at all," the little girl said, leaning to Harry's side and giving her mother a sideways looks. "But I don't really care anymore."

"Money means nothing in the afterlife," Harry agreed, ignoring the look the older Gilmore was giving him and wrapping his arm compassionately around the spirit. "Where did you put it?"

Tina smiled. "I gave half of it away – the money – to my friends who needed it. The jewels, though. Those I hid." It took some coaxing to get her to reveal the location, and she wasn't too happy knowing that Harry was about to tell it all to the mother she didn't like too much, but like all spirits she was disconnected from material needs and it is the principle rather than the jewellery itself that made her cross with him.

"You will find the jewellery in your neighbour's pond," Harry said after Tina left. "Tina wrapped it in a plastic bag – there's a branch in the side of the pond, with a cord connecting it to the bag. The money is gone, though."

Mrs. Gilmore didn't thank him and called him a charlatan, but Harry got twenty pounds for his troubles. It wasn't exactly a lot and by the look Mr. Fergusson gave the woman he at least had expected more, but Harry thanked the woman nonetheless. He was at that point getting very short on money and really, he hadn't lost anything in the process or needed to put much of an effort to it either. He considered it a fair deal, in fact.

After that, the word somehow spread. Mrs. Gilmore and her case became not an oddity that Harry had humoured just this once, but just the first of many. In the beginning, when he got a customer per week and barely got paid for it, Harry didn't take any of it seriously. He used it as a way to kill time in between hunting for a flat and having absolutely nothing to do – and the boy he had been was satisfied with the thought of helping people move on and make their last goodbyes or whatever it was they wanted when they asked him to summon this or that dead loved one. But it was more entertainment than work then.

It had become more – privilege, work, duty – when a distraught father came to him, having heard of him through the grapevine and having no other place to go. Tom Andrews was a wealthy single father of a six year old boy, desperate for answers after police had given up on the boy. "They say he was kidnapped," the man told him, wringing the knees of his neat suit in a desperate grip. "But there was no ransom note, no word, nothing. It has been four months now."

Harry nodded and without further ado – without realising that he should have taken his time to prepare the man – tried and instantly managed to summon young Eddy Andrews. "Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy!" the boy cried, trying to jump into his father's lap without completely realising that his father couldn't see him, and that he himself wasn't really there.

The entire event was miserable. Mr. Andrews broke apart in front of Harry, and Harry couldn't get Eddy to understand what was going on. Very little answers were discovered either – Eddy had no idea what happened to him, just that he had been walking along the road one moment, and soon after he was meeting his mother in the nice, golden place. Eddy babbled about Mrs. Lorelai Andrews happily most of the meeting, while Mr. Andrews wept, first with grief and horror and then disbelieving joy, as Harry tried to translate Eddy's babble into something coherent.

"Thank you. Thank you," Mr. Andrews sobbed, after two hours had gone by and Harry had also summoned his wife and grandfather out of sympathy, and spent the time trying to intermediate the utterly bizarre family meeting. The wife and the grandfather had more answers than the excitable son, and between them they had figured out that the sudden death was most likely due to a car Eddy had heard coming. Harry was paid a thousand pounds for the whole thing, and after Mr. Andrews left, still sobbing, the wizard was thanked by Mrs. Andrews and Mr. Andrews the senior. Eddy kissed his cheek, before three of them returned to the golden place.

A couple of days later, Harry read from the newspaper that Edward Andrews had been found, buried in a shallow grave in a park near his school – it looked like he had been hit with a car, according to the papers, and though they were still looking for the driver, Mr. Andrews, the grieving father, finally had his answers. Harry went to the funeral and offered the grieving father a smile, which the man answered through his tears.

After that, Harry had stopped looking for other jobs, and settled into the form of being just a medium - or a psychic, which is also what people call him. As far as employment went, it was bad. Customers were rare and not all of them could pay well, and some weren't too satisfied when the dead simply refuse to talk with their living loved ones. It barely paid the bills in the beginning and the money hadn't been really worth the looks he got in the neighbourhood where he finally found his small flat. Those had only gotten worse since.

But it is a hundred times better than some of the alternatives and even while his magic would make him exceptionally good and successful thief or a burglar, it is simply not within Harry to go down that road. Being a medium is rather ridiculous – and he is cheating every step of the way. Anyone could've done it with the Ring after all. But still. It's _something_.

Sometimes it's even the good type of something.

 

* * *

 

 

The payment from summoning David Wilkins lasts him for a couple of weeks, paying the bills for the previous and the following month. Harry's learned to pay ahead rather than after, because while he can do food, clothing and most all other necessities almost out of thin air, he can't do a house or a flat if he's kicked out. And he’s come close to that a couple of times.

But eventually the money runs out, it always does, and for a while no job seems forthcoming. Of course there are the random people in the neighbourhood who have heard of his talent, and pay him some handful of pounds for some minutes with their dead fathers and mothers, cousins and ex-lovers, but that isn't enough to pay the rent or the water bill. He still has time, of course, but he prefers to have a little bit of extra, rather than nothing at all. Insurance, one could call it, and Harry is learning to be somewhat suspicious of how well or badly things might turn out. A testament of living in a poor neighbourhood.

When the job comes, it comes through the usual avenues, but in a fairly unusual way. The pub downstairs holds a message for him, which the manager hands to him when he's passing through in order to head out. "Neat looking girl, expensive suit and nails and all," she says, as Harry unfolds the note. "Should pay well, d'ya reckon?"

The wizard smiles. She’s nice to him because he pays his bills something like on time, but he knows aside from that she can barely stand him. She's superstitious, even more so now, having met him.

"Maybe," Harry answers and then concentrates on the paper. People leave him notes all the time – phone numbers, meeting places and sometimes names, business cards. This one is different. It is a photocopy of a driver's licence of one George Dawson, and nothing more.

"Interesting," Harry says, smiles at his landlady, and then heads back up and to his little flat again. He knows a challenge when he sees one, and George Dawson seems like a challenge. After closing and locking the door, he places the paper in the middle of the cheap coffee table, and then pushes his hands into his pockets. The Ring, as always, slips on his finger smoothly and turns with ease.

He ends up summoning nearly ten different George Dawsons on the first try. He hadn't gotten a good enough look at the picture, it seems. It's always difficult like that, when going with a name and nothing more. Frowning, Harry dismisses them all gently, before looking at the photocopy again. George Dawson, born in the nineteen eighties. A young man, stoic faced in the picture, wearing a clumsy pair of glasses. He really should've learned to pay more attention to pictures by now, Harry admonishes himself and then looks up again.

George Dawson, the one he actually wants, is a young man in a cheap suit with mousy brown hair and a forlorn look about his face. "Figures," he says and falls to sit in Harry's cheap armchair. "Just figures."

"I guess," Harry answers, not really knowing what figures, but figuring that he'll find out soon enough. He picks up the photocopy again and turns it around. The backside is blank. He'll use that.

"So, what do they want to know?" Mr. Dawson asks, frowning at him. "Did I give anything away, did I betray them? You'd think a bloke would be free from all this bollocks after death, you know?"

"We'll keep it short and then you can go back," Harry promises and sits down with the copy paper and a pen. "Why don't you tell me everything?"

Mr. Dawson gives him a look. "No specific thing, then? You don't know what they want either? Figures," he sighs, and then begins to rattle out his life story with the practiced, bored ease of someone who has had to do weird tasks for a long while. He doesn't even seem surprised or annoyed at being summoned, just exasperated, and his attitude makes Harry even more curious. The dead know more than the living, but people usually tend to be at least a little surprised.

George Dawson was born in Birmingham and he had studied computer sciences. He graduated a little bit early and then had gotten hired by the government thanks to having a good memory and an eye for details. He mostly worked with the CCTV network, maintaining and debugging the system. He worked for a man he called _that smarmy bastard_ , though he still isn't sure what the man's actual name had been. His job had been boring. Up until the point he had recorded, analysed and forwarded a file about a couple of politicians talking with a couple of foreigners, and then found himself with a bullet in his head.

"Sniper," Mr. Dawson says, making a shooting motion with his hand. "Right through the head when I was kicking back at home, watching telly. Never saw it coming."

"And in hindsight?" Harry asks, because the dead tend to linger some time after they die, sometimes for as long as their funerals. The ones who are murdered usually figure out who killed them before they move on.

"Hm. Not much I found out. Too far away, couldn't find him," the dead man sighs, shaking his head. "But I figure the tape was pretty important, since it got me killed. I don't really mind, though. Got to see my dad again. That's been nice."

Harry nods, and writes it all down on the copy paper with a cheap, broken pencil. "Thank you," he says, eyeing the list of bullet point facts he's written down. It's all very important somehow, he knows that. He doesn't follow politics and has no idea who the people whose names he wrote down at Mr. Dawson's dictation are, but they mean something to someone. It's interesting, even if not to him.

"Well. I'm done. Do you have any personal messages you might want to add?" he asks

"Not really. I hate my mum and got no friends," Dawson says, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "My life was kind of pathetic."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Harry says, and then folds the paper. "Thank you for your time. You can go now."

The spirits nods and stands up. "Tell the smarmy bastard that he should take a look at that hot tech working on the fourth floor. There's something not too right about her," he says and shudders. "Kept giving me the willies at my funeral." With those parting words, he salutes and then fades away, leaving Harry alone in his small flat.

Harry nods to himself, and writes it down as requested. With that done, he looks at the paper again, wondering what to do next. He's not sure who wants this information, or if he even got the information they wanted. It has the after taste of a test, and Harry has bad experiences with those. And of course, dealing with someone without knowing where they kept their brains…

Harry ends up tucking the photocopy into his pocket. He will keep it, for now. If whoever brought it to him comes back, he will deal with it. Until then, he will wait.

He doesn't have to wait for long.

 

* * *

 

 

Her name, according to herself, is Acraea, but the way she says it is proof enough that it isn't her real name. She smiles at him distractedly, keeping most of her attention on her phone and only giving Harry a glance over it, before pointing at the car, telling him to get in, that she's to take him somewhere.

"No thanks," Harry says, and turns to away.

"I have to insist," Acraea says, and when he glances over his shoulder she's holding a gun on him.

There are dozens of ways for Harry to negate the gun. A shield, a summoning spell, apparation… Except there is a chance she could very well fire before he manages to as much as pull out a wand and even the Elder Wand can't save him if he can't get it in time. Apparation might've been quick enough, but it wasn't worth the risk of getting shot and then splinching while trying to apparate while wounded.

"Right," he says instead and turns to the car. Since whoever wanted him had the capability of sending a woman with a gun to fetch him, they probably had the capabilities for more. Shaking his head and brushing his hand against the pocket where he has the Elder Wand, he gets into the car, where he is quickly joined by Acraea and her gun. She keeps it trained on him, even while she works her phone with her other hand, and as the car moves away and down the street, the gun doesn't as much as waver.

With a single spell he could've turned the car and its occupants into a flaming ball of fire. Keeping that in mind, Harry looks out of the window, trying to figure out where they are taking him, and why. Down the street, across a crossing, to the left, to the right… towards the long row of warehouses not far from where Harry lived. And then, after weaving between the warehouses for a while, they drive inside one of them.

A man waits for him there, and after one look at him Harry decides that this man is most likely Mr. Dawson's smarmy bastard. There is an air around him, that would've painted him as such even without the suit, the haircut, the expression – the umbrella he has resting against his shoulder. An aura, even, except Harry is not actually a mystic, and doesn't believe in auras. Not that type, anyway.

"Well, then, Mr. Potter. Nice of you to come by," the man says, umbrella swinging down, metal point touching the cement floor. "I hope the drive was pleasant."

"Endurable," Harry says, tugging the photocopy from his pocket and unfolding it. "He was right about you," he says, and then hands over the paper. It is probably unnecessary – important, unimportant and, in the end, probably just a cover, a test. What he found out is not what he is here for; he's here because he _could_ find it out.

"Ah, yes," the man says, smiling and almost looking pleased with Mr. Dawson's opinion of him. "I'm afraid you can hardly take a step in life without leaving footprints on someone's ego. For me it is something of an occupational privilege."

"Not a hazard?" Harry asks mildly and the man only smiled a little wider. Shaking his head, the wizard lets it pass. It's not important. "Who do you want me to call and what do you want to know?" he asks, figuring they might as well get it over with

"Cutting right to the chase, aren't we? I like your straight forwardness," the man says, and leans on the umbrella, tucking the copy paper into his pocket and just looking at Harry for a while. "Harry James Potter. That's the name you wrote down when you rented your flat, and yet there are no corresponding records elsewhere. Harry Potters are a dime a dozen, but the particular Harry Potter you are supposed to be does not exist. Such things do make one wonder."

"Many things do," Harry answers. He doesn't bother defending himself, and just faces the man's gaze steadily. Inside he berates himself. He's been too obvious and too accurate. Of course he made someone curious – in this world even something as simple as acting as a medium is beyond extraordinary. He should've been more vague and made mistakes to breed doubt. He should've been vigilant. Now who knew how many people with too many resources and too many theories knew _something_ about him and even if that is only a fraction of what it is, it's a fraction too much.

The people of the modern era won't burn witches on stakes. No, they will dissect them in laboratories, and it is not a fate Harry likes to contemplate. There were so many easier, nicer ways to go. He knows it better than most, having talked about it with over a dozen people now.

"Relax, Mr. Potter," the man says, amused and, yes indeed, smarmy in the way he pronounces the words, the way he smiles. "You are not the first person with… supernatural abilities I have encountered. Granted, your ability is something new, genuine and powerful as far as my research can tell, but not exactly unheard of." He chuckles. "I am not here to trap you."

"Liar," Harry answers, but relaxes because he can hear an echo of something in the man's voice. Disinterest perhaps. This is not a man who wants to know _how_ things work or _how_ something is done. No. "What do you want?" Harry asks, this time with interest instead of hostility.

The man chuckles again, shifts his footing and somehow ends up looking even more at ease and casual than before. "I often find myself in need of the services of a good medium," he says. "But mediums, unlike Harry Potters, are not a dime a dozen. Especially not the truly good ones."

"So you want my services?" the wizard asks. "I already knew as much. But…" he trails away. "You want more than just one session. You want _several_."

"You would be well compensated for your time," the man says, and looks over Harry's shoulder just as the sound of high heels echo in the empty warehouse. Acraea approaches them, with a folder in her hand. She smiles, hands it over to Harry, and then pulls out her phone again, typing away even as she returns towards the car. "Your down payment," the man says with a smile. "Open it."

Harry does. There are papers there – the topmost is a birth certificate. Then medical records, school records… "Hm," the wizard hums, thoughtful. They are all well-made and though all the details are completely wrong, they still seem _true_. Harry Potter, son of Jane and John Potter, born in London – _honestly_. The date is completely off too, though Harry doesn't know exactly by how much. It's not that important in any case.

The bank account is nice, though, even if empty. But what's most interesting is the paper in the bottom. It is a vague and confusing document, but it makes what he's been doing randomly and beneath all possible counters into a legal occupation and trade making him a certified medium. "I didn't think there was such thing as using supernatural powers professionally."

"Yes, well. With that you are entitled to read cards and give horoscope readings over the phone if you so choose to. Not exactly what you do, I understand, but the closest one can get in this day and age," the smarmy bastard says, looking quite satisfied with himself. "Now what do you say?"

"To what?" Harry asks, and closes the folder. "All you've said is that you'd like my services. You haven't said when, where or for how long."

"You would work me part time – or should I say, on a freelance basis - whenever I need it," the man says. "I don't require you all the time, but every once a while when something… unpleasant happens. I suppose it would be something like once, twice a month, depending on my need, of course."

"Of course. And if I have other things to do when you need me?" Harry asks.

The smarmy bastard smiles, soft and sharp at the same time like a blade wrapped in honey. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, shan't we?" he asks. "Of course, if you would be as kind as to indulge me above all others, I would happily do some small favours to ease your way."

"After giving me a fake identity and offering me money, what's there left?" the now professional Medium asks, more amused than confused.

"Clientele," the man says. "Work for me, indulge me, and I will make sure you will have enough well-paying clients to keep you busy – aside from myself, of course."

"Of course," Harry murmurs, and then tucks the folder underneath his arm. There's no decision to make, not really. "What is your name?"

The man laughs with what seems almost like delight. "Well, now, that would be telling," he says, amused. "I know better than to give my name to mediums. They have a deplorable habit of finding out more than they ought to, if they have a name to go with a face."

"I suppose," the wizard answers, shaking his head. Probably best not to tell the man that he doesn't even need a name, if he has something else to go by. He's already given away too much. "Well then, Mr. Bastard. Do you have something for me to do now, or can I go back home?"

His new employer laughs again, now with amusement that at least seems honest. "Nothing for now, but I suspect soon enough I will come back calling. Thank you for your time, Mr. Potter," he says nodding his head almost low enough to call it a bow. "Acraea will take you home."

"Thank you," Harry answers with a smile of his own, and turns away. "Oh," he stops and glances at the Smarmy Bastard over his shoulder. "Was there anything of importance in the case of George Dawson or did I waste my time for your sick pleasure?"

"I don't do things without a cause, Mr Potter," the man answers, taking the paper out and glancing it over. "You will be paid for your troubles soon enough."

"Cheers," Harry says with a nod, and heads away. Acraea is waiting for him in the car, and the drive back to Harry's flat is short, passing by quickly as Harry leafs through his new papers.

"Here," the woman says when the car stops, and hands over a neat cardboard box. "Your new phone. Keep it with you. Always."

"Right," Harry murmurs, accepting the box. He has no idea what he will do with it, but he can figure that out he supposes. If nothing else, it is easier to accept it at this point and then forget it later if he can't. "Thanks."

It is perhaps one of the most interesting days he has had since his stumble.

One of the most productive ones too.


	2. Chapter 2

The Smarmy Bastard keeps his promise. The day after Harry manages to figure how to turn the BlackBerry on and off, he gets work. A woman in a neat business suit with diamonds on her ears and fingernails comes to him, with a simple request, promising to pay well. "My husband was murdered four years ago," she says, simple and succinct, handing over the man's driver's licence. "The police never found the asshole that did it. I want to know."

"Alright," Harry says, and looks the driver's licence over. Paul McKell, born in the forties, a grey haired man with sharp eyes, glasses and a neat beard. "I can't promise you results," he says as warning. "If he saw his killer, then he will probably be able to tell, but if it happened suddenly, or his vision was obscured…"

"He was stabbed twenty times in the chest. He should've seen it coming," Mrs. McKell snaps at him.

"Okay," Harry says, giving her a glance. Four years and she's, despite her cool appearance, still heated about it. She's probably tried other means of finding out. "Right. Let's give it a try then."

Paul McKell, like most elder spirits, comes to him as a young man. Younger than Mr. Wilkins even, almost a teenager. He gives a frown at his wife and circles the room uneasily, fingering a knife that must've been incredibly important to him, to have him keep it in death. "She's a fool. She thinks that my brother killed me so that he'd get the money from my will," Mr. McKell says. "It was split between him and her and if she can prove that he did it, she'll get his share of the fortune."

"Did he? Will she?" Harry asks, glancing at the woman who jumps a little but otherwise stays calm.

"No. It wasn't him," Mr. McKell sighs, and stops by the window, throwing the knife in his hand and catching it by the blade. "It was my secretary. Rina. Pretty little thing. I'm afraid I had something of a fling with her, and she wasn't too happy with me when I did not pay for her cancer treatment. Breaking things off with her didn't make her much happier, the poor girl. She was smart as anything, though. Could've really gone places, with her brain."

"Ah," Harry says and leans back. The dead had the most interesting drama to share, at times. "Is she dead?"

"No. Dying in a hospital – the cancer spread because she didn't get treatment in time. There's nothing science or money can do for her now," Mr. McKell sighs. "Do you have to tell my wife? She's not going to live for long, and she'll make my afterlife miserable with this, and I'll probably have my hands already full with Rina."

"I'm afraid she's the paying customer," Harry answers apologetically.

The missus isn't happy at all, but she pays very well indeed. The next day Harry spreads open a newspaper and reads of the miraculous conclusion of an old murder case, as Rina Edwin confesses to a murder on her death bed.

The next job comes, just like the smarmy Bastard had promised, the very next day. This time the customer doesn't come to his pathetic little flat, but instead he gets a call from one Kelly Johnson, who would very much like to talk with her father, who had been lost at sea about twenty years ago without telling anyone where he had left his, frankly rather expensive, cello.

Harry meets Miss Johnson in her flat in downtown London, where she offers him tea and biscuits and asks what it is like to be a medium.

"It's kind of like any other job, except not," Harry says, sipping his tea and finding it a bit too bland but not complaining. It's not every day he's offered tea, after all. "Do you have a photograph of your father, or maybe a birth date?" He can summon a spirit just by having met a family member, but it helps, knowing more. And it never hurts to be cautious, especially now.

"Yes, I do," she says and offers him more information than he needs in the form of a family album and birth and death certificates. Harry glances over them until he has a good enough fix on Jonathan Johnson – whose parents must've thought they were being very funny.

Jonathan Johnson had been nearly fifty when he’d died, a heavy set man with a receding hairline and burly moustache. He comes to Harry looking exactly like that, wearing the suit of a concert player, with a bow in his hands. Harry soon figures out why he identifies himself with how he was when he was already an older male, rather than how he was as a young man like most dead do – Jonathan Johnson, despite his name and death, had died a very satisfied man.

"Loving wife, great kid, fame, fortune. I was a very famous and well liked cellist, you know. Not much of a sailor, though, I grant that," Mr. Johnson laughs heartily, his arm wrapped around his daughter's shoulder without her being the wiser. "Kelly wants my old girl, right? My cello, that is."

"I suppose so," Harry answers.

The man sighs, giving her daughter a fond look. "Good kid, Kelly was. Still is, of course, but bad with money. In something of financial trouble right now, I think, loans with her business. That cello of mine would fetch about hundred thousand pounds from the right buyer – easily enough to get her out of her trouble."

Harry nods slowly, while Kelly Johnson herself looks between him and the empty air he seems to be staring at. "It is nice that you understand. Can you tell me where the cello is?" Harry asks, wondering why neither of the two feels like exchanging anything more personal. Then, after a moment and a glance at the crucifix Miss Johnson wears, he figures they don't need it. These two talk enough, even if only one of them can hear.

"Stolen, buried, forgotten. That's why I went out – my prize instrument went missing and I needed time on my own to think, to clear my head. Afterwards I found it – a violinist from the orchestra I played with took it. In something of money trouble too, he was," Mr. Johnson sighs. "After I died, the poor lad didn't have the guts to sell it, or show it – thought they would think he was the one who killed me, he told me. Died a couple of years back, he did."

Harry nods. "The location?" he asks, and the man tells him where his daughter ought to go and try digging. "Okay, thank you. Do you have anything you would like me to tell to your daughter?"

Kelly Johnson gives him a terrified glance, but her father laughs. "No, no. The girl knows I love her and that I'm proud of her. I'd like it better if she got a proper financial advisor, but that's about it," the cellist says and stands up. "Though you might want to let her know that my cello wasn't the only thing of value that lad buried. What she does with the rest is her business."

Harry nods and as the man fades away to return to the afterlife, he tells Miss Johnson what her father had said. She thanks him in choked tones, accepting the paper as he offers it to her. Her payment isn't as high as the one Mrs. McKell offered him, but it is more than generous, considering that she's in a financial bind. Knowing she's in a bind doesn't make Harry turn it down, though – he's been contemplating getting a better flat, and every penny is needed.

Not to mention that she's about to discover several hundreds of thousands worth of loot.

 

* * *

 

 

While he still gets some of the random cases on the side, from the grapevine and from the neighbourhood, it is the cases the Smarmy Bastard _somehow_ sends his way that pay his way out of his shabby flat, and into one with a real kitchen and a real bathroom. He's barely moved in, when the Bastard himself calls for his services, in the form of a brief and succinct phone call, informing him that he should cancel his afternoon appointment and that a car was waiting. Harry grumbles, but cancels the appointment with Kat Harrison.

The car – no Acraea this time, but he doesn't mind – takes him downtown, where he is directed by the staff of a very expensive hotel to head up to floor twenty, room two one zero seven. He does, and finds himself faced with a yellow _DO NOT CROSS_ tape.

"Do come in, Mr. Potter. The police have already done their part which, admittedly, wasn't very awe striking," a familiar, bored voice speaks and Harry ducks beneath the line, to join his shady employer who is sitting in the middle of the hotel room sofa like he owns it.

"Hello, Mr. Bastard," Harry greets the man, and gets a quick smile in return. This would be the part where they would change pleasantries, except Harry isn't the type for pleasantries and even if he had been, the Smarmy Bastard wasn't the sort of man who actually enjoyed them either, especially not when they got in the way of results. And results are what Harry is there for. "I suppose someone was killed here, then. Recently?"

"Yesterday evening around eleven. Samuel Ferrows, a… contractor of sorts," the man answers, examining his nails. "Strangled to death in the bedroom with a metal wire, possibly a garrotte."

"Okay," Harry nods crossing the room and nudging the bedroom door open. It doesn't look like a crime had been committed there, but then strangling doesn't exactly leave behind blood splatters, he supposes. He wouldn't know, though – all the deaths he has witnessed have been weird, magical or bloody. Nothing as simple as strangulation. "What do you need to know?" the wizard asks.

"Whatever he can tell me of his killer and if he has any notion as to what was done with the suitcase. And, if you don't mind, don't get too curious about the suitcase. It wouldn't be too… well, it is best you don't know," the Smarmy Bastard says, giving him almost kind smile. "I'm sure you understand."

"I'm sure I don't want to," Harry answers, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Samuel Ferrows," he says while slipping the ring to his finger and closing his eyes. He thinks of the recent death, the suitcase and the man's name, as he turns the ring. When he opens his eyes, the spirit is there, just as prompt as all the others.

"Oh for fuck's sake," the man groans in sharp American accent, running his hands through his short blonde hair. He stands in the middle of the bedroom, staring at the bed. "I blew that one, didn't I? I really blew that one."

"I guess so," Harry answers amiably, glancing at the Smarmy Bastard who is watching with idle interest, not getting up and not giving anything away by his expression. The only thing that betrays him is the sharpness of his eyes and the fact that he's stopped absently tapping the floor with his umbrella.

"Mr. Ferrows, if you could be as kind as to tell Mr. Potter here who killed you, I would be most appreciative," the man says, causing the spirit in the bedroom to jump with surprise and wild look to appear to his eyes.

"Shit. Shit, shit, when the hell, _how_ the hell…?" the man asks, turning on the spot and giving the window a wild look, like wondering if he ought to jump.

"Hey, relax, mate. You're dead," Harry says to him, hoping to calm the poor bloke down a bit by being more casual than he usually is with the dead. "Nothing can hurt you now."

"Oh, trust me, that bastard will figure a way if he feels like it, he always does," Ferrows says, cursing and carefully peeking into the living room, where the Smarmy Bastard sits, calm as anything. "He can't see or hear me, right?" the spirit asks desperately.

"In this flat only I have that pleasure," Harry answers with a mild, amused smile, looking the man up and down. It's almost a pity – Ferrows hadn't been a bad looking bloke. "However, he does call the shots," the wizard adds, nodding towards the Smarmy Bastard, "so if you wouldn't mind, I would very much like to hear about your killer."

"Tch," the man answers, and then paces along the length of the room. "It was _nothing._ I was, just… she was... fuck, I got played so easily, this is such bullshit," he groans, running his hands over his face. "Okay, okay. It was this woman. I thought she was just a normal girl, I mean, she had _some_ features which were _just_ … you know? But she didn't seem too bright. Easy to flatter, easier to, well… bring here."

Harry sighs. "Alright," he says agreeably. "So it was a woman who killed you?"

"Fucking bitch. Put something into my drink - she must've! I wouldn't have fallen that quickly if she hadn't," Ferrows swears, pacing some more. "I'm not that weak."

"Right. Can you tell me what she looked like?"

"Before or after?" Ferrows snorts and then explains. The woman had been a curly haired blond when he had brought her up, with green eyes and a round face – and curves _everywhere_ according to Ferrows. After he’d been killed, she had taken off the wig, visited the bathroom, and came out as a brunette with long straight hair, blue eyes, an angular face – and with less curves than the blonde had.

"Couldn't see what she looked like without the stuff. I think her hair was brown, but it was short, netted back, you know, because of the wig," Ferrows sighs with disgust.

"Professional hit woman, then," the Smarmy Bastard says, after Harry explains it all to him. "What nationality was she?"

"He couldn't tell. Pale when he met her, Caucasian. Darker skinned when she left," Harry says.

"Quite skilled in art the of disguises then. And the case?"

Ferrows scowls. "Well, she obviously took the case. Don't know how she knew I had it – I'm not an idiot, I don't brag about that type of things. You get the hounds for that sort of talking," he paces along the room again, while Harry relays what he said to the Smarmy Bastard. As he does, Ferrows has an epiphany. "Wait, wait. There was something – she made a phone call after she did me in. To, uhm… Davidson. Yeah, Davidson."

"Excellent," the Smarmy Bastard says after has Harry repeated what the spirit said. The man stands up, swinging his umbrella up and to rest against his shoulder. He looks satisfied. "That is all I need."

"Alright. Seems like you can go. Thanks," Harry says to Ferrows, who slumps down with relief.

"Oh, God I thought he'd spiritually gut me," the man says. "A word of advice to you, dude. Get some better employment. The pay's good, I know, but it's not worth the risk. Or the fucking stress. Seriously."

Harry smiles. "I'll take that under advisement," he promises and Ferrows begins to fade away, walking through the window and back to the afterlife.

"Well," the Smarmy Bastard says, pulling out his phone. "That was very educating. You don't need to see a face to call upon a spirit. Just a name. Very… interesting."

Harry eyes him for a moment, wondering if it's worth it to be truthful. The Bastard has gotten him good customers – and the payment he had gotten from summoning George Dawson had been more than decent. "I suppose," he says in the end, and nothing more. He's too paranoid to indulge more than he has to, and really, the Bastard hadn't even asked. "Do you need me for anything else?"

"Not at the moment, but keep your weekend open," the man answers. "I have a feeling I will need you then."

"Will do," Harry says, and as he heads out, he can hear the man talking on the phone.

The following Saturday he is asked to summon and question the spirit of Eliza Hunt – a hit woman with short brown hair and bullet hole in her forehead.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry is just figuring out that the medium thing has somehow became his whole life instead of being the small not that important piece of it that he indulged every now and then, when he's for the first time thrown into a police investigation. A friend of a former client calls him, with the former client advising the new one from the background, telling him to tell the facts. One of the people sent by the Smarmy Bastard - they are always a bit more aware of what Harry does than the other ones, and thus didn't bother with needless details.

Mr. Fisher had, just a little earlier, arrived home to find his wife with an array of bullet holes in her chest. The police had been called, the forensics guys were just going through the scene, but Fisher had heard them saying that there was nothing to be found, except for the bullets maybe – no prints, fibres, anything.

"I just want to know who killed my Abby," the man sobs into the phone, choked and too loud and as Harry leans back in his chair, he wonders when he had gotten used to that, listening to people cry.

"Tell me the address, Mr. Fisher," he says. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

It takes him nearly half an hour, but he makes it to the flat complex where police cars still litter the front, with vans and groups of people curiously overlooking. Harry finds his new and old customers in the back of an ambulance, where his former client – Mrs. Simmons, whose son had vanished and ended up having killed himself by overdose in an abandoned house – and new client sit. It takes some sneaking about to make it past the police guarding the scene, but he makes it and then stands before his new and old client.

"Mr. Fisher?" Harry asks, and the tired looking man glances up, eyes puffy and red, face pale. "I'm Harry Potter. You called me in to have a look at your wife's death?"

"Thank you for coming," Mrs. Simmons is the one who answers, wrapping her arm tighter around the man's shoulders.

"Happy to be here," Harry nods and turns to look at the flat complex. "Any news yet, have they found any evidence, anything?"

"Not that we've heard off, but they haven't talked with Gene much since they took his statement. We still need to go to the station to make another one, but…" Simmons trails away and shakes her head. "They're still going through the scene; I don't think they will let you in."

"Ah, well. It's not always necessary, I'm close enough," Harry assures, eyeing the building for a moment longer, before turning to Mr. Fisher and Mrs. Simmons. "Might be best I don't do it right here, I think," he says. If he called the man's wife now and talked with her right in front of him when he was in too much shock to have even started mourning not to even mention about recovering… the man might really break down.

Not to mention about all the police officers all around him.

"No, please," Fisher says, looking at him desperately. "I need to know she's alright, I need to know she didn't hurt too much, please!"

Harry sighs and smiles down at the man. "Dying always hurts, but trust me when I say this, every dead person is _alright_ ," he says as gently as he can manage. "The place they go to is beautiful, peaceful and free of stress. Did your wife have relatives, or friends she had lost?"

"Parents, grandparents – she loved her grandfather very much," Fisher says in choked tones.

"She's with them now and, trust me when I say this, she is having one hell of a time there," Harry assures him. "Let's leave it at that for now, alright? I will ask her if she knows who killed her, any way to prove it, and then I will send her back to be with her grandfather. And when, eventually, you're not in as much shock, you can call me again and I will call her. Alright?"

"But I want to talk with her now!" the man snaps at him, making Mrs. Simmons jump slightly.

"Hey, you there!" a voice cuts in before Harry can try and come up with a soothing answer. "How did you get there – who are you? This is a crime scene, you know, you can't just --!"

As Harry glances over, a man in long dark coat with greying hair and dark eyes strides over with a scowl on his face. A police officer, judging by the way he walks, confident and in his element like Auror at the scene of a magical accident. It's almost nostalgic, except no, not really. He straightens his back, ready to face whatever accusations the man might have, knowing he will most likely get thrown out of the scene.

"Who are you? A reporter?" the man demands to know, glancing towards the men who were supposed to keep people out, whom Harry had sidestepped. "How did you get past the –?"

"We called him, Inspector," Mrs. Simmons says, nodding at Harry. "Since it didn't look like you were having much luck finding evidence."

"And you're what, a private detective of some sort?" the inspector asks, frowning. "Thinking to pick up from where Holmes left off?"

"Who?" Harry asks, confused and the inspector's scowl wavers in a look of confusion. Harry shakes his head – it doesn't matter. "I'm Harry Potter, inspector. A… medium." How strange it is, to say it out loud.

"A _medium_?" Now there is no scowl or confusion, just utter disbelief, incredulousness even. He lets out a mixture of a snort and a groan. "A bloody medium. If you think I'm letting a civilian into my crime scene, you're sorely mistaken, Mr. Medium."

Harry smiles faintly at that. The whole thing is weird from his end, he can only imagine how it must look from the other side. Not to mention about the fact that mediums, according to what little research he has done about his licence and all that, are unreliable and in most cases utter frauds. "I didn't really think I'd be let in," he says, pushing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. "I don't really need to either, I wouldn't want to contaminate a crime scene."

The inspector narrows his eyes and says nothing for a moment. "Why'd you call a medium?" he then asks, turning to the victim and Harry's former client.

"You didn't seem to be having much luck, and I've engaged Mr. Potter's services before," Mrs. Simmons says, tilting her chin proudly up. "He found my Tommy, after _you lot_ had given up on finding him. And I didn't want that to happen with poor Gene and Abby."

The inspector blinks, looking like he doesn't know whether to be insulted or not. Harry shakes his head and gives the man a wry smile. "How about I just do my thing quickly, see if I can add anything to this, and then I'll be on my way and you can do your thing?" he offers. "And if I can't help, we'll forget we ever saw each other and you can keep your report free of any weirdness."

The inspector nods slowly. "Alright," he says. "Do your thing then, Mr. Medium."

"Not here, I think," Harry says, giving Mr. Fisher a glance and then looking around. "Mind if I go over there?" he asks, pointing empty spot between two police cars. The inspector's eyes narrow again and the wizard sighs. "You can come with me if you want."

"Alright. Let's go then," the man nods, and after giving something resembling a soothing smile to Mrs. Simmons and Mr. Fisher, Harry turns to follow the inspector who leads him between the cars.

"The woman's name is Abby, right? Abby Fisher," Harry asks, fingering the Gaunt Ring in his pocket.

"Abigail Jane Fisher," the inspector answers, folding his arms. "Do you need her birth date and horoscope too?"

"No. The fact that she died here recently is a good enough identifier," Harry answers and closes his eyes, thinking of the name, of Gene Fisher, of the fact that the woman had been shot close by and not too long ago as he turns the ring on his finger. "I'll be talking to thin air for a moment, so don't freak out or call the men in white jackets or anything. It's part of the whole medium deal."

"This I have to see," the man snorts. "Go ahead."

Abigail Fisher is a woman in her early thirties, with straight blonde hair and pearls around her neck. She says nothing at first, just stares towards the ambulance where her husband sits covered in an orange blanket, comforted by Mrs. Simmons. "He has a big heart, Gene," Mrs. Fisher then says. "Poor thing, it will take him a while to overcome this. Thank god he has Renee. She'll help him deal."

Harry nods. "It's always good to have someone to support you," he agrees, and ignores the startled, confused look the inspector gives him. "I'll intermediate discussion between you two when he's in a better mood for it, if you'd like. He probably will."

"Yeah, I know. And it'll do us good – there were lot of things we didn't think to say. We thought we had more time," the spirit sighs and runs hand over her hair before smiling at Harry. "It was an ex-boyfriend," she then says. "Jamie Norton. We had a rocky history and then Jamie went to jail for burglary and battery – he was released about a week ago, kept calling me all the time but I didn't let Gene see. He frets easily and I didn't want to worry him."

"Okay," Harry nods. "He kept calling you. Threatening you?"

"Gene, mostly. Thought we were meant to be together, that Gene had messed everything up and that it was his fault, things like that. Wouldn't believe me when I told him we were long since over, him and me, and that Gene was now all I wanted," Mrs. Fisher sighs, and leans on the side of the police car. "When Jamie came over I let him in, hoping that a face to face talk would do what phone calls hadn't managed. It didn't, he just got angry until…" she made a motion with her hand and sighed. "The first shot got me through the heart. It was quick, barely felt a thing."

"I'll tell that to your husband, it ought to soothe his mind," Harry promises. "How did he manage to not leave any evidence?"

"Everything he wore was new – and all leather for the most part, so no fibres. Plus he was all shaven, so no hairs or anything like that," the woman says, and looks up the flats front. "There are the bullets, of course. And my phone records. And of course the gun, though who knows where he got it."

"The _gun_?" Harry asked, perking a little. That would be perfect evidence. "Did he leave the gun behind?"

Mrs. Fisher points at a flower arrangement not far away. "Buried it there."

Harry looks and then nods. That should be enough. "Thank you, that's more than enough," he says. "Do you have anything to add, or something you might want me to tell to your husband?"

The woman hesitates and then sighs. "Yes. There is something. But… this might not be the right time. You will call me again, to talk with Gene when he's ready?"

"If he asks for it, sure," Harry promises.

"Yes, that would be better. I will tell him everything then. He's not in the right state to hear it," the spirit says and then smiles. "Tell Gene that I'm comfortable. It's nice over there, and I've gotten to meet everyone. Gene's father is quite the dog too! It's been… brilliant. Makes me a little bit guilty, actually."

"You got killed, ma'am. You deserve some peace and happiness," Harry assures her.

"Thank you. I look forward to seeing you again, and talking with Gene," she says and after Harry nods to her, she begins to fade away until it's just Harry and the police inspector between the two police cars.

"It was her ex-boyfriend, Jamie Norton, who got out of jail a week ago," Harry says, turning to the inspector. "Check her phone records if you can – he's been calling her all week. And you can find the murder weapon over there," he adds, pointing at the flower arrangement.

The inspector's eyes widen for a moment, before growing suspicious. Harry sighs and then shakes his head. Of course, he knows too much, suspiciously much and with too many details. "And I was in a pub all last night, before you ask - Master's Mesh, the people there ought to be able to verify," he says, because becoming a suspect in a murder investigation is the last thing he needs.

"So I'm to believe that you just spent two minutes talking to the spirit of a dead woman?" the man asked suspiciously.

Harry shrugs. "You don't have to, if you don't want to. But I would suggest checking the flower bed out anyway," he adds, and walking past the man. "Make it seem like you decided to check it out yourself, and it's like I was never here." That would probably be best for everyone.

"Right… But just for the sake of being thorough, how about you hand over your contact information – just in case there are some things I need to clear out," the man says, holding his hand out. "I'm sure that you have a business card."

"I'm afraid not," Harry smiles, a bit amused now. "Better take out a pad, inspector."

After leaving his address and phone number with the man, Harry heads back to his clients, and delivers Abigail Fisher's last message, assuring them that she was fine, that the death had been quick and they would talk more when everything would be settled.

"And they'll catch the one who did this to my Abby?" Mr. Fisher demands to know.

Harry glances away. The inspector who had watched him summon Abigail Fisher is digging to the flowerbed with hands covered in rubber gloves. It doesn't take him long to find the gun. Even as the man calls someone over to bring him an evidence bag, he is eyeing Harry thoughtfully, but not suspiciously.

"Yeah. They'll catch him," Harry promises.

His assistance has sped things up, but in the end he doubts it has been exactly necessary. It is likely the police would've combed the area for the gun and checked Mrs. Fisher's past for any potential enemies as well as checked her phone records without needing to be told. But it was good to be part of a crime investigation, even if so fleetingly. It's not who he is, and it's not what he can be here, but it's like waving back at the person he had been, might've been, and that's just… nice.

If painful, bittersweet nostalgia can be called nice.


	3. Chapter 3

The time he helps the Met catch Abigail Fisher's killer is not the only one. Somewhere between the spouses and lovers who had lost their beloved, of children who wish to connect with their lost parents and, sometimes, parents who wish to do the same, the call comes in. It's maybe a couple of weeks after the case of Mr. and Mrs. Fisher, which thankfully didn't come back to haunt Harry. Whatever that inspector found following Harry's clues had satisfied the man enough that Harry wasn't questioned or even sought out after wards for further information.

Not until two weeks later, but even then the case of Mrs. Fisher's murder is already done with, and it's another thing. The inspector calls him late in the afternoon, asking him if he had any talent in identifying the dead.

"If I have the bodies to work with," Harry answers, stopping in the middle of his bored pacing and holding the phone steadily to his ear. "But, even if it's a request from the police, I don't work for free." His life in the shabby little flat with no bathroom to speak of had taught him better than that. Sleeping rough wasn't impossible or unbearable, but he still preferred to do at least somewhat well, than extremely poorly. "I am a _professional_ medium."

"There will be a fee in it if you can give me both their identities and the way to figure out proof of it," the inspector answers. "Or some way of verifying, anyway."

Harry thinks about it for a moment. There is every chance he can't because every summoning is a type of gamble. Dead like to indulge him and usually answer his questions without trouble – the whole being Master of Death, paying off even here – but there is always every chance that this time, this dead, might not.

Harry has always been somewhat bad at resisting challenges and gambles, though. And there is some professional curiosity and pride there too, now. He's making his living by being a medium and even thought it still feels like cheating, like he's fooling his way through life, he has been doing it for long enough for patterns to form, habits. If he could find everything of a dead spirit, and the way to verify that in the physical world… that would be a source of pride.

He didn't need to do it – but then, he hadn't _needed_ to win the Triwizard tournament either, and some habits die hard.

"Alright," he says to the phone. "I'll try. Where do you need me?"

The inspector needs him in the morgue where the bodies are being kept, at St. Bathrolomew's. The man meets Harry in the of the hospital – finally introducing himself as Inspector Lestrade – before leading him up the stairs, along the long corridors and towards the morgue.

"They were found two days ago in a shipping crate," the man says, fingering a folder he had brought with him. "Four women, three teenage girls, all dead of dehydration. Our specialists' say that they are Middle Eastern, possibly Albanian, but it's hard to say precisely – they'd been in that crate for a while." He stops just as they are about to enter what Harry assumes is the morgue itself. "You're not squeamish, are you? They're not a pretty sight."

"No, I'm not squeamish," Harry answers. Hogwarts and Voldemort had taught him out of that long before he had even realised that he ought to be squeamish about some things.

"Alright then. But do tell me if you get sick. I don't want you throwing up on these women," the inspector says and then opens the door to the morgue. The air is colder there, cooled down to preserve the dead no doubt. There is a row of four bodies on tables in the room, all dark women who had been beautiful in life, and in death looked peaceful and miserable.

"Oh, you're here already!" a female doctor who had been opening one of the many metal doors on the side of the room – the cold chambers. "I was just about to bring the girls out. Um…" she glances curiously between Lestrade and Harry, who has already stepped between two of the bodies, to get a better look. "Is this the, um…"

The inspector sighs. "Doctor Molly Hooper, medium Harry Potter," he says, waving between them.

"Mr. Potter, it's so exciting to meet you!" she says, smiling. "I've read all sorts of things about mediums, but I've never seen one in action. Do you mind if I stay, Mr. Potter?"

"Harry's just fine and it's alright, you can stay if you'd like. So as long you don't freak out," Harry says, smiling at her fleetingly before looking down to one of the dead women. Probably best he starts with the oldest one and then works his way down, so that the younger ones will have the example of their older companions to go by. Painful slow deaths leave behind some pained spirits and he doesn't want to cause unnecessary grief by shocking them with his summoning.

"So, you need their names, their origins," Harry asks, glancing up. "Anything else?"

"How they ended up like this, if they can tell anything about the people who took them. Everything they can tell, more or less," Lestrade says. "Anything we can use to make right by them."

Harry smiles. It was a nice turn of the phrase, make right by them. "That's a lot of facts. I'm probably not going to remember it all," he says, turning to look at the bodies and deciding that he would start on the left side middle one. She looked like she was the oldest. "You might want to take out pen and a paper."

Lestrade takes out his note pad and a pencil, and while the doctor hovers near by curiously. The inspector at first makes a handing motion towards Harry's direction, like intending him to take note pad, but the wizard only glances at him and then ignores the gesture. He needs his right hand for the Ring and he doesn't want to take the ring – or the hand it is on – out of his pockets, so he won't be writing down anything.

"Alright. Ready when you are," the inspector says awkwardly and Harry pushes his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, gazing down to the woman before him while turning the ring.

She _was_ beautiful. Long dark hair and soulful dark eyes, high cheek bones and dainty chin, lips made for smiling in delight. As she appears to him, she's smiling, even if not in delight. "Oh thank God," she whispers and smiles at him, wide and painful. "I thought… I thought we would be buried here, without anyone knowing. _Thank God_."

Harry smiles in return, a little sadly. He's summoned a couple of dead who had been like this, foreigners on foreign soil, desperate to be buried at home. It will make his job here easier if these women are not just willing but eager to get back, but it is always a somewhat forlorn thing to do. "I'll try to make sure you aren't, but I'll need your help with that," he says, and ignores the way the female doctor jumps and gasps, covering her mouth and looking wildly around like trying to find the spirit.

"I'll do everything I can, of course," the dead woman says, giving a desperate little laugh. "We all will. It was so miserable, the whole thing. It will be good to go home," she sighs and looks down to her own body. "I look horrible," she says, chuckling and running a hand down her own face. "This isn't at all what I wanted."

"I've no doubt about that," Harry agrees, and glances down to the body also. "Can you tell me your name?"

The questioning is long and bittersweet. The woman, Marigona Besnik, is more than helpful, telling him where she was born, what was the name of her mother, father, sister, and all she remembered of the men that took her and the other women, who fed them during the sea voyage. As she says it all, Harry repeats her words aloud for the inspector to write down, while the fascinated, shocked doctor finds a chair to sit and watch the whole thing from.

"I was such a fool. I was promised a rich husband in the America. Such… such a young, stupid fool," she says, tucking her hands into her armpits and rocking slightly where she stood, trying to comfort herself. "And my sister told me too, told me to be careful! Did I listen to her – of course not! I never did."

"I'm sorry," Harry says, and glances at the inspector. "Do you need more, or should I move onto the next one?"

"I think this'll do," the man says, glancing over the list he had written.

"Alright," Harry agrees, and glances at Miss Besnik. "Would you like to stay while I talk with the others, or do you want to go?"

"Probably better I stay," she says. "To give some support. The poor things, they were so terrified, especially the girls."

Harry nods, and then turns to the next body. While Besnik gives the other woman's name – Lule Ismaili – Harry turns the ring in his finger, and soon the placating and the questioning begins anew. The entire job ends up being long and fairly gruesome as, the younger the dead get, the more mournful and broken they seem. One of the girls barely can stop weeping enough to answer Harry's questions, which is heart-breaking to see. Normally the dead don't feel sorrow – but these women still have yet to free themselves from their deaths.

It will probably take them a while longer before they manage it.

After nearly an hour of questioning which, by the time of the last girl, has gotten pretty chaotic for Harry with so many dead spirits in the morgue, they are done. The doctor woman has fallen into perfect silence after listening to the whole deal, her eyes wide; the inspector had grown a little pale about the whole thing. Despite his unease, though, the man had written every word Harry had relayed to him down, and he had now several papers' worth of facts about the women.

"Thank you ladies," Harry says to the spirits, when the inspector gives him the nod. "We've gotten all we need. Inspector Lestrade will try and make sure all of you get home, alright?"

"Yes," Besnik, who seemed to be in control of the entire group, said. "Thank you."

The gratitude and thanks are repeated several times, before the entire group huddles together and then fade away, leaving Harry alone with the dead bodies, and the two living people. He sighs and takes his hands from his pockets, rubbing them along his face and then the back of his neck. Summoning the dead never drains any of his energy as the power required all comes from the Stone, but that… was tiring.

"A-are they gone?" Hooper asks, standing up carefully.

"Yeah, gone back to the golden place," Harry nods and turns to the inspector. "How was that?"

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you had a living person to question," Lestrade says, shaking his head and tapping the notepad with his pen. "And for the record, that was creepy as hell."

"Most people think so," the wizard agrees amusedly.

"They all spoke English?" Lestrade asks, jotting something more down. "That might help us identify them."

"No, probably not," Harry answers and shrugs his shoulders. "The dead have no use for language barriers." Nor does the Master of Death – all the dead seem to speak English to him, even when they aren't. He had figured that out when summoning a Chinese man and spending half an hour talking with him – and only in hindsight being informed that the man had never spoken English in his life.

"Well _I_ think it was amazing in either case," the female doctor says, coming to join them by the examination tables. "That was really incredible. How do you do that – have you always been able to do that?" Harry shrugs, and doesn't answer. She frowns and then smiles again. "Hey, can you, um, do that thing to someone for me? His name was Sherlock Holmes and –"

She stops as the inspector turns to stare at her incredulously, making Harry frown slightly. "Sherlock Holmes? Who is that?" the wizard asks.

"He was a consultant that used to help the Yard every now and then," Lestrade says, turning away. "Died a couple of years back."

"He used to work here, from time to time," Dr. Hooper says, looking around with a nostalgic smile.

"And… he was your friend?" Harry asks, glancing between the two. "Close friend?"

"Well, um…" Hooper trails away awkwardly.

"Not really. Sherlock only ever had one friend, and that's neither of us," Lestrade says pushes his notepad into his pocket. "If you're going to go talking with him, then I'm out of here. I had enough of him in life." Shaking his head stiffly he makes his way to the door. "I'll get back to you on your consulting fee, after I've checked the info out properly," he adds, and is then gone.

"Huh," Harry says after the man, and then looks at the doctor. "So. This Sherlock Holmes _wasn't_ a friend of yours?" he asks.

"Well… I liked him and –"

"I'm sorry, doctor. I don't talk to dead people on a whim," the wizard says. "The dead tend to get irritated when they get called for no good reason. I don't call historical figures, I don't call ex-boyfriends and I definitely don't call unrequited loves."

"Oh," she murmurs, and frowns, looking down to her shoes. Then she sighs, shakers her head and smiles sadly. "Yeah, I suppose he would be irritated if you did. Sherlock was like that," she sighs again. "Um. I need to put the bodies away. Would you like to grab a cup of coffee afterwards? My shift is almost over."

"Sure, why not," Harry answers, and when she perks up he feels necessary to add, "Just… I'm not too into women. Just saying to avoid any awkward revelations later."

"What, _again_?" the woman asks exasperatedly and groans. "All the good ones are either gay or bloody asexual! What does a girl have to do around here to find a good looking, interesting, _straight_ guy?" she sighs and waves a hand. "Alright. Let's get coffee as purely non-compatible acquaintances, then."

The wizard chuckles softly at that. "That works."

 

* * *

 

 

Harry's two next cases are for the Smarmy Bastard. The first comes by 'mail', except he finds the envelope on the living room table, rather than in the mail. Driver's licence, death certificate, and a single note written in a strict but elegant hand, _find out who he did business with_. Harry does – Mr. Flynn Edgar had done business with one Oliver Mason, and gotten shot and burned in an oil barrel for it after giving the secrets away for money that had never came.

The other case takes a little longer. The Smarmy Bastard isn't there, but Acraea, whose name is Chere now for some reason, walks him through the scene in her distracted way, never looking up from her phone for too long. Harry suspects she's using the thing to videotape him, but he doesn't really care, as he walks around the flat and then summons the spirit of a recently deceased man who’d been found with sensitive files without anyone knowing who he was or how he had gotten the files. Dan Campell tries to lie to him, tries to circle around the truths, but Harry isn't the Master of Death just in name. The dead _can't_ lie to him.

He's starting to wonder if the Smarmy Bastard knew that yet.

After leaving Chere to her phone, Harry spends an afternoon shopping with Molly, who is fast becoming something he cautiously would call a friend, or if not that, then a mate. She at first seems quiet and shy, but after she gets over the initial worry and confusion and curiosity and Harry manages to make her aware of the limitations – what he does is beyond private, not as a rule, but by ethics and morals he didn't even know he had built, as well as his paranoia. But the other stuff that they talk about, and if what Harry thinks and knows about death and her work at the Barts Morgue overlap, it just makes the conversations more interesting.

She's a lively girl, and Harry hadn't even realised how much he needs to see life before she drags him off to shop for clothing. She babbles and nags and gossips a little, oohs and aahs over certain articles of clothing and moans with appreciation when she finds an especially good cup of coffee. If there ever was a person to be called a _ray of sunshine_ , Molly is it. Cloud coverage included.

She asks him a couple more times to talk with Sherlock Holmes, but the more she asks the less she really sounds serious and the more Harry knows that she's not the right person to ask it. Whatever she and the man who had once worked with the Met had, had been completely one sided and though in the years since the man's death Molly had forgotten it, Harry is too used to people asking for things that are none of their business to not see.

"People have really asked you to talk to historical figures?" Molly asks one night in a pub she likes and Harry's growing fond towards. It's after Harry has spent a day intermediating meeting between a grandmother and her two grandsons, and Molly has performed three autopsies at Barts, so the time off is welcome. "I mean, seriously? Who?"

"Well, the most memorable one was the guy who asked me to call Hitler for him," Harry says, and the man in the chair behind him spews out his drink. "One asked me if they could talk to Cleopatra, and then there was this guy who wanted to summon Jesus but he was too drunk to make much sense anyway. Hmm… Couple of presidents of the United States, Marilyn Monroe, hm… Agatha Christie, that was interesting one, apparently there’s some unsolved mystery about her or something."

"Did you talk with her?" Molly asks eagerly.

"Of course not," Harry shakes his head. "He couldn't prove a family relation."

She grins, taking a sip of her drink. "Anyone else?"

"Well, they're pretty scattered, and there were some really obscure ones. And then there are the people who want me to call people like Hernán Cortés or William Thompson and people like that," he says, shaking his head, and then explaining. "People who had a lot of gold and such, hid it, and no one knows what happened to it since then. You know, lost treasures."

"Ah, of course," Molly nods sagely.

"Molly?" A male voice interrupts them curiously, and looking up Harry sees a brown haired man walking closer with a cane in one hand and a glass of beer in the other. With each steps he leans on the cane, the limp heavy and awkward. "It is you. Long time no see."

"John!" she cries, jumping up and attaching herself to his neck. "Long time no see indeed! Where have you been all my life?"

"At the clinic for the most part," the man says, trying to balance her and the drink he had been carrying while giving Harry a curious look. "Boyfriend?"

"Gay. Or asexual, or something like that, not entirely sure yet," Molly sighs, leaning her cheek onto the man's shoulder and giving Harry a look. "He won't say."

"Hey, rejection's rejection no matter how you gift wrap it. Sorry, luv," Harry says, saluting her with his empty drink glass.

She harrumphs and narrows her eyes. "Maybe you're a necrophiliac."

"Maybe we both are," the wizard snaps back, and blinks with surprise while she blinks in return, realising what they had just said. They're just tipsy enough that, after a moment of tense silence that has the backbeat of the horrible pop song playing in the pub, the words sent them both into roaring laughter, Molly smothering hers badly into the brown haired guy's shoulder while Harry tries desperately to it with his hands even while cradling his glass in them.

"I'm thinking there's a joke I'm missing here," the bloke John says with a bemused smile, while Molly's peals of laughter fade to giggles and sniggers.

"Can't miss what you don't want to know, and you probably don't want to know," Harry answers once the moment of absurd hilarity passes, and the poor guy Molly now clings to with all her might looks between them with utter confusion. Chuckling Harry calls for seconds for all three of them, figuring that a good evening can only get better.

It does, but the morning after ends up being not so pleasant.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry wakes up to the sound of his mobile buzzing as it receives a message. It is somewhere on his left and as he desperately tries to reach for it, he nearly falls off the sofa where he is lying, and ends up banging his wrist hard against something cool, a table maybe. He finds his phone after a couple of tries and with blurry eyes reads the message there.

 _Do not, under any circumstances, summon Sherlock Holmes_ from the Smarmy Bastard.

"Wasn't going to," Harry answers the phone and lets it fall against his chest, only then realising that he's not in his flat – or in Molly's for that matter. Glancing around carefully he takes in the wall paper, the bookshelf nearby, the ceiling fan. He has no idea where he is.

What a novel concept.

"You're awake," a vaguely familiar voice notes, and tilting his head backwards Harry sees a doorway leading into a kitchen, and a guy standing there in a striped sweater and faded jeans, leaning on a cane. Brown hair, blue eyes, not a bad looking face though he’d probably not been sleeping too well in several months by the looks of him. "How are you feeling?"

"Felt worse," Harry answers honestly, resting his left hand over his BlackBerry and rubbing his eyes with his right. "…John, right?" he asks hopefully. "Molly's friend?"

The bloke grins. "Yeah. John Watson," he says and turns around. "Come on. I've made some tea, and if you manage to make your way up to the kitchen I'll even let you have first pick at breakfast. Choices vary from cereal to burnt bacon and eggs."

"Charmer," Harry groans, but makes the attempt, clumsily grabbing his glasses from the table as he does. It’s been some time since he had gotten truly drunk like he had last night, and as he pushes himself up to his feet, he remembers why. He holds liquor somewhat well, but the headache of the following morning has the habit of taking him down. Memento of Voldemort and the Horcrux that is now long gone – even the smallest of headaches tend to bloom into blinding agony with him.

"Here," Watson says when Harry manages to stumble his way into the kitchen, handing him a pair of pills. "Maybe these will help."

"One can only hope," Harry says and swallows them dry, grimacing slightly at the taste before reaching for the tea cup the man offers him next. "You mind it terribly if I asked why I'm here instead of… somewhere else?"

"You got a bit plastered, and I doubted Molly would have the strength to drag you out of the taxi if you passed out – and you did," the man answers, sitting down as well. "She wasn't too sober by the end of it. It was either this or leaving you in the gutter and I figured you'd prefer my crappy sofa to that."

"I do. Cheers," the wizard answers and washes the taste from his mouth with a mouthful of scalding tea. There is a moment of silence that isn't as much tense or awkward as it is pained and dull, before Watson stands up and takes out some plates, dishing Harry some bacon and eggs which aren't as burnt as he had threatened. Harry doesn't feel too hungry, but a childhood at Dursleys made him physically incapable of turning down food so he eats it, even if it makes his stomach churn.

"So. Molly told me you're a magician from outer space," the man across him says while nibbling onto his share of the food. "She was jumping on the walls when she did, though, so I don't know how much I can trust what she said," he grins and then reaches for the salt. "You work with her at Barts?"

"No," Harry says, frowning and glancing down to himself. Even now his clothing is second hand due to the fact that he shops in second hand shops and such. "Do I look like it?"

"Honestly? No, but there's only so many occupations where jokes about necrophilia are even remotely accurate," Watson laughs, though a bit awkwardly. "Even if not too funny."

"Ah, well. We did meet on a job at the Bart's morgue, so that's something," Harry says, and sighs as he hears his mobile beeping with another text message – the mobile which he had left in the living room. He doesn't feel like getting up just yet.

"You want me to get it?" Watson asks, amused.

"No, I'll get it. Whatever it is, it can wait for a moment – my clients usually can," Harry snorts and turns to his food. "I'm a medium."

The man across him blinks with surprise and then leans back in his chair. "Seriously?"

"Serious as a heart attack. Well. Thereabouts anyway," Harry answers and smirks crookedly at the look the man gives him. It's not exactly suspicious, but there is the hint of disbelief there that even the more open minded people get. "It's okay. Most people don't believe me."

"And you met Molly like that? You were at Barts to do what?"

"Identifying some people," Harry answers, and swallows the last bit of his bacon.

"And you did?" Watson asks, curious despite himself.

"Yeah. Of course I got no physical proof for it, nothing like that, but I did what I was paid for," Harry nods and then stands up to fetch his phone. His stomach turns and his head is still spinning and pounding, but he is somewhat steady on his way to the couch and back, though he doesn't dare to try and read the message before he's safely seated. It's not the Smarmy Bastard this time, but Inspector Lestrade.

 _Dead security guard, killer on loose, need to identify him ASAP_ the message reads. Harry lifts his eyebrows at it. Lestrade wants him to identify killers now? Well, he can understand that having an easy way of identifying people would be useful for a police investigator, but Harry is still a medium and as far as he knows the people of this world look at supernatural powers from not so flattering angles.

 _Bit hangovered at the moment,_ he answers while nibbling on the bacon. _Do I have enough time to shower or do you need me right now?_

Lestrade's answer is not a text message, but a phone call that nearly makes Harry drop the mobile to the floor. "I need the identity forty five minutes ago," the man answers without giving Harry any chance to say anything. "Where are you? I'll come and pick you up."

"I'm at, uh… I actually have no idea," Harry says and then looks up to curious looking John Watson. "Where am I?"

 

* * *

 

 

It turns out that Lestrade and Watson know each other – that they used to work with each other back when the mysterious Sherlock Holmes was still alive. While Harry washes his face and does what he can about the taste in his mouth – which is fairly a lot, considering that he still has the Elder Wand with him – they exchange greetings and talk about what's happened to them in last year or so. Apparently they hadn't had much contact in a while.

"Well, it's been a bit busy at the clinic. Long hours, you know how it is," Watson says, looking away while Harry re-enters the living room, more or less ready to go.

"Too busy for a pint?" Lestrade asks, and he doesn't sound as much dejected or disbelieving as he sounds understanding, expectant even.

"You weren't too busy yesterday," Harry notes, running a hand through his slightly damp hair and ruffling it out of order.

"Some guys at work… I didn't intend to stay that long," Watson answers awkwardly and then takes a deep breath and changes the subject. "So. Since when has the Yard employed mediums? Didn't think things had gone so bad."

"Well, Potter is disturbingly accurate, and I need the ID on a killer," Lestrade answers, glancing at Harry and then looking at Watson. "You could come with us. Be like the old days."

Watson smiles and grimaces and shakes his head. "Wouldn't be much use, I'm afraid," he says and taps his cane against his outstretched left foot. "Besides the old days are gone for a reason. And I'm not Sherlock."

"Hm," Lestrade answers, glancing down to the leg, then up at the man's face, not quite frowning. "I never said you were," he says quietly, and then turns to Harry. "Well, let's go then. We've already wasted too much time."

"If there's really such a rush, why did you text me, rather than call?" Harry asks curiously.

"Because there were people around, and do you even know how weird conversations with you sound?"

"Right," the wizard nods amusedly, looking at Watson. Even with Lestrade's attention diverted from Watson, the air seems saturated with old memories and unsaid things, heavy and electrified and painful, awkward and crowded. Even without it, though, he could've seen the old wounds in Watson – the man's even more covered with invisible hurts than he is. While pulling his hoodie back on, Harry purses his lips in thought. He had tried the sitting back and having no human interaction too. It hadn't worked too well – but neither had the desperate attempt of rebuilding, definitely not.

Easiest way to go, he has found, was to go with the flow. His flow was the medium thing. Who knows what it is for John Watson, but since accidents seem to work so well for Harry, maybe…

"I'll buy you a beer," the wizard says, as Lestrade turns to leave the flat. Watson looks up to him with a confused blink and Harry shrugs. "If you come, that is. I'll buy you two."

"Generous offer, but I don't think it's such a good idea," the man answers with a crooked, mirthless smile. "I'm not much for going out, really."

"I can tell. How is it working out for you?" Harry asks flatly and raises his eyebrows as the man frowns at him. The wizard isn't entirely sure what he's trying to convey, but something of it seems to get across, and something about Watson's expression relents. "Come on," Harry says again and grins. "I'll show you magic."

Something dark and bitter flashes in Watson's eyes, but as Harry waits, the man sighs and levers himself up to his feet. "Three beers," he says as he limps to get his keys and phone. "Four if it takes too long."

"Four it is," Harry agrees.

The case itself doesn't take long. Harry sees the body at the morgue – Molly isn't at work, and the student who pulls out the body for Harry looks decidedly uncomfortable with the whole thing. The student flees as soon as he can, leaving Harry, Lestrade and Watson alone with the body of a tall, blonde haired man who had been shot twice in the chest.

"Jack Wilson," Lestrade says, glancing over his file. "Works at a high security storage company called LKSecurity."

Harry nods and after taking a good look at the security guard's face, he pushes his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, and grasps the Ring. It's testament to the power of the hallows that he hadn't lost any of them in the previous night because his wallet was definitely lighter than it was supposed to be, but then if he is incapable of leaving the Hallows behind, then it stands to reason that no one can steal them either.

Not that any of it matters now. Harry concentrates and turns the ring, and as he opens his eyes Jack Wilson stands across the body from him, looking down at himself. While Watson looks on with confusion, Lestrade pulls out a pad, ready to write down.

"I don't look too bad, dead," Wilson says, reaching out to poke his own cheek. "I was worried the bastard would blow my face in. That would've been pretty nasty."

"I'm sure," Harry answers with some amusement, and hears Watson's confused inhale. He ignores it, and instead smiles at the dead man apologetically. "I'd normally take a moment to let you come to terms with this, but we're on the clock here. Did you see the man who shot you? Do you think you could describe him?"

"I can do more than that – I can name the fucking asshole," Wilson snorts, and does just that. It turns out that the killer was a fellow security guard from the company, Michael Hill, who had started working there just couple weeks back. Wilson had caught Hill in the storage area at an odd hour – when the man was supposed to be off duty – and while he had been trying to get an explanation, the other man had shot him.

"Wait, Hill? He was the one who found Wilson, and called it in. Why would they –" Lestrade starts and then stops, realisation dawning. "Right…"

"Hill joined the company with the intention of breaking in, stealing something. Wilson saw him, and the man couldn't leave behind a witness," Watson says thoughtfully. "If he stuck around to make the call, then he was either really gutsy or –"

"Or he didn't yet get whatever he was after," Lestrade agreed, already pulling out his phone. "I should still have an officer at the company –" he murmurs, tapping something in before bringing the phone to his ear, already striding towards the exit.

"So," Watson says, while Harry sends the dead spirit away. "You talk to the dead. Huh."

"You don't think I'm a fraud?" Harry asks, leaning to the metal doors of the cool chambers.

"You were with me last night, and for an act that was too detailed," Watson answers, coming closer and pushing the body back into the chamber, closing the door with a practiced hand. "I suppose there's still a margin for error or something I might be missing, but as far as I can tell, you seem legit."

"Thanks," Harry grins and as his phone beeps with a message he digs it out. It's from the Smarmy Bastard, repeating the message from the morning. _Do not, under any circumstances, summon Sherlock Holmes._ Shaking his head, Harry locks and pushes the mobile back to his pocket, and then looks up to Watson. "Too early for beers. How about some coffee instead?"

"You don't want to join Lestrade in solving the mystery of the dead security guard?" Watson asks, his eyebrows rising.

"Mysteries aren't my thing. I just talk to dead people," Harry shrugs.

Watson smiles and it's an odd mixture of disappointment and relief and strange, bittersweet nostalgia that Harry knows very well and not at all. "Alright," he says. "Coffee."

Harry nods, and together they head out. On the way to the nearest coffee shop he learns that John is a doctor, that he used to be part of police investigations fairly regularly a couple of years back – and that he misses it terribly, though the man doesn't say it out loud. Harry hears the openings and hints in the man's words, not quite obvious but not exactly subtle either, like the man wants him to ask, but doesn't at the same time.

Harry considers it for a while. What little he's heard of Sherlock Holmes is making him curious – first Lestrade, then Molly, now John, and with Smarmy Bastard telling him not to summon the man, it's impossible not to get interested. But on other hand it's none of his business, and Harry's gotten fairly good at avoiding and forgetting things that aren't his business.

"So, what was he like?" he asks finally, as they seat themselves with cups and pastries at the window to watch the traffic outside. John gives him a confused look, and Harry specifies. "Sherlock Holmes. Molly and Lestrade said that he only had one friend, and considering that little conversation between you and Lestrade, it's pretty obvious it was you."

"…You don't read my blogs, huh? Finally someone who doesn't. Why do you want to know?" John asks after a moment of silence.

"Because you want to tell. Blogs?" Harry asks curiously.

The man waves a hand. "I used to keep an online journal back then. It was for my therapy, but Sherlock somehow ended up being the subject of most my blog entries," he says and sighs, looking away. "It's all there."

No it isn't. Not with that tone of voice. Harry looks at the man silently for a long moment, sizing him up and wondering. Obviously there were things _left unsaid_ , in the way that usually sent people to Harry so that they could deliver those unsaid things in hind sight. John, though… he doesn't seem like a person who would want to deliver those things by proxy. Unlike Molly whose first reaction had been to jump at the opportunity, the thought of asking Harry to summon Sherlock hasn't even crossed the man's mind. And it won't.

"How did he die?" Harry asks instead, and turns his attention to his pastry. He hasn't had treacle tart in what feels like years.

"He died of mortal case of idiocy. He had a… well, an archenemy if you would believe it, a nemesis," John says, snorting deprecatingly at the thought. "And Sherlock, being the idiot he was, decided to face him alone like it was his duty to defeat the man. God damned idiot."

Harry blinks at that. "Huh," he says, and sips his coffee. Well didn't that sound familiar, he thinks and looks out of the window, wondering what had happened if he had gone to face Voldemort and gotten himself permanently killed. Would he have left behind someone like John Watson, to bitterly think back and call him idiot so sharply and so fondly at the same time? Maybe. Who knows.

"The worst thing about it is that every time I think back to it, the more certain I am that the moment he died was probably the happiest that bastard had," John adds with a snort, and for a long while he just stares out into the traffic, his eyes following a cab as it drew to a halt by a nearby building, and then, after letting out a passenger, continued on its way. Shaking his head, the brown haired man turned to look at Harry. "What about you?"

"What about me?" Harry asks, lifting his cup towards his lips.

"What is your story?"

Harry smiles faintly and looks away. "Too long and not all that relevant," he answers.

"If you say so," Watson answers, sounding not all that convinced, and for that reason alone Harry decides that he will buy the man some beer at some point, whether he likes it or not.


	4. Chapter 4

He nearly doesn't buy John Watson anything – wouldn't have, if the Smarmy Bastard had been any better at convincing people. After meeting, talking and then parting ways with John Watson, Harry is for a couple blocks stalked by a black car before he sighs and waits for it to catch up. The Smarmy Bastard's assistant rolls down a window and smiles distractedly at him, and with a sigh Harry gets in, asking her what her name is this time.

"Echo," she answers, and Harry takes that as a hint and spends the ride in silence, staring out of the window and wondering where he'd meet his elusive employer this time. It ends up being in an abandoned parking hall, where the lights flicker and flash and the Smarmy Bastard waits by a concrete baluster, umbrella hanging from the crook of his arm.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Bastard?" Harry says, joining him by the baluster. "And not for work, otherwise I'd be at a scene or beside a dead body."

"No," the man answers and turns to look at him. "You have made some acquaintances in the past week. Friends of one Sherlock Holmes."

"Whom you don't want me to summon, yes, I got the message the first time," Harry answers, tilting his head. Usually the Smarmy Bastard seems to trust his discretion at least to some extend – bringing him to scenes of obviously delicate crimes and situations but not extorting any promises or oaths of secrecy out of him. This time it seems different, which means of all the things Harry has seen so far, killers and assassins and politically delicate outrages, all pale in comparison to whatever it was, that had gotten Sherlock Holmes killed.

"Did you really?" the man asks.

"Yes, but you're making me _very_ curious," Harry answers, narrowing his eyes. "What is it, then? Does he know some world changing truths? Key to breaking open some world-wide conspiracy? What?"

The Smarmy Bastard smiles at that, eyebrows rising. "You have a great gift of imagination, Mr. Potter," he says in tones of congratulation. "I had thought that you, being a very realistic medium, laid no value on such things. I see I was most grievously mistaken," he chuckles and straightens his back. "Whatever is the reason, the fact remains. I do not wish for you to summon Sherlock Holmes, no matter what is the reason. Do you understand?"

"Sure," Harry says amiably, folding his arms and giving the man a somewhat flat look. It has been a while since he's been told to do something just because someone _told him so_. He doesn't like the sound of it any better now than he had liked with Umbridge.

"I mean it," the Smarmy Bastard says, giving him a stern look in return. "You are in my employment after all, and I can make things very difficult for you, should you give me a reason. You wouldn't want to do that, now, would you?"

Harry smiles slowly at that. Flick of a wand, and he could make this man forget that Harry even existed. Another flick of the wand, and Harry could leave himself behind and become another person entirely. Threats on his person where in that light rather amusing, but despite that he can feel the power behind the threat. The Smarmy Bastard can't only deliver, but he can deliver with insidious precision.

The problem is, Harry's reaction to threats has always been utterly twisted and backwards.

"I only summon the dead when people give me a good reason," he says – which is true enough, even if it hadn't been in the beginning. "And as of yet, no one has given me a good reason. Molly Hooper is not attached enough to merit a summoning, Lestrade doesn't want, and John Watson wants everything, but to talk to a spirit through a medium. So you can rest assured – I won't be summoning Sherlock Holmes for them."

"Hm," the man hums, eyeing him silently for a moment before smiling. "I do like associating with professionals," he says, taking his umbrella and swinging it idly. "Your work ethics are delightful, Mr. Potter, they truly are."

"I live to serve," Harry answers with a shake of his head.

"I don't suppose you could stretch those work ethics to cover some of your personal life?" the Bastard asks, tapping the umbrella handle with his fingers. "I would prefer it if you had no contact with John Watson from here on."

"That is pushing it," the wizard says with a snort. "Do you need anything else from me tonight, Mr. Bastard?"

"Yes, actually, I do," he agrees, and takes out an envelope from inside his jacket. "Names, origins and mission details of these individuals, if you could be so kind. Any additional information of their leaders and potential organisations would be welcome as well. There is no rush, however, so you may take a day or two."

"Two days, even. How unusual," Harry says, taking the envelope. "I'll see what I can do."

 

* * *

 

 

Even as he summons, questions and writes down the information of the people the Smarmy Bastard had asked him to summon, the thought of Sherlock Holmes piques Harry's interest. Though it dismays him a bit that even though it's been ages he has yet to shake free of his teenage year's nosiness, he can't help it. He wouldn't have cared if it was just Lestrade, Molly and John – but with the Smarmy Bastard taking such pains just to tell him off…

After he's questioned the last man, he puts the photographs and the reports he had written into the envelope and then sets them aside. Then, absently turning the ring on his finger, he thinks of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, Lestrade and Molly and what could've been so secret that the Smarmy Bastard had to take such measures to keep it so.

He had never said that he wouldn't summon someone for himself.

The man that appears is not at all what he expects. He is a tall, dark eyed man with hair slicked back, wearing a neat suit that has a slight old feel to it. The watch chain, the walking stick, the shoes… and the feel of the man only make it clearer. This can't be the man Harry was intending to summon. This man belongs to the entirely wrong _time period_ to be the right man.

"Fascinating," the spirit, who can only be a Sherlock Holmes even if not the right one, says, looking around. "I have kept my eye on the world as it has aged and changed, but it is something entirely different to see it from this angle." Without waiting for an answer, the spirit walks to the window, peaking outside. "Ah, automobiles. Who would have thought that contraption would get so popular, so… sleek? I did have some notions, but nothing of this scale, not indeed."

"Right," Harry says slowly, watching the man as he watches the traffic outside. "I don't think I meant to summon you. Sorry about that."

"Oh, not at all. It is a marvellous opportunity, not many among our ever expanding numbers get the chance ," the Victorian man answers, throwing Harry an odd fleeting smile that seems to come upon his face like well-rehearsed mask. "Of course, there has been an increase in such cases, which I believe can be credited to you."

"Guilty as charged," Harry agrees, standing up and frowning. Since the man doesn't seem too bothered about being summoned, he lets the urge to apologise go, and instead wonders. Why hadn't it worked? The criteria are detailed enough. Name, and three fairly close relations. Sherlock wasn't exactly a common name, so that alone should've gotten him pretty close. And yet, it hadn't worked, and had instead summoned a completely wrong person.

"He's not dead," Harry mutters to himself. It's the only explanation because the only person he couldn't summon with such criteria would be a _living_ person.

"Very good," the Holmes he had summoned says, giving him another fleeting smile. "I have been following that scheme of his. Very intricate and very foolish, but I suppose it runs in the bloodline," he chuckles and looks out of the window. "Say, my good man, would it be at all possible for us to take a stroll outside? I would so love to see how London has changed in these years.

Harry blinks. Scheme? Bloodline? "You're his ancestor," he more states than asks.

"Several times great uncle, yes. He was named after me," Holmes answers, smoothing a hand down the front of his coat. He throws yet another smile at Harry. "However, as foolish as is his scheme, it is very delicate. The less you know, the better for him and for you, because the slightest information where a void should be can bring unwanted curiosity. As it is, you already know too much."

"I see," the wizard answers. So, Sherlock Holmes, the detective whom John mourns, Molly had had a crush on, and Lestrade worked with, had faked his death for some reason. The Smarmy Bastard knew, and was covering it – and didn't want Harry to bring out the truth. Therefore, Sherlock Holmes was working undercover somehow. Probably had something to do with that nemesis of his. It was a scheme Harry could respect – he had used it himself, even if in shorter term, as he had only faked death for about half an hour or so.

"Right," he says, and feels a bit embarrassed. This is so far into the _not his business_ territory that he is flailing. "Stroll you say?" he asks, and reaches for his jacket. Holmes straightens his back, beaming and Harry sighs. "Just, don't expect me to talk in public. I'll nod, shake my head, but that'll be it. Otherwise people will think I'm nuts."

"Nuts," the man repeats. "What a strange expression. Very well, I shall keep in mind that whatever conversation we will have shall be one sided." He pauses to consider, tapping his lips with his forefinger before smiling. "Would you mind if I led our stroll, my dear fellow?"

"By all means. It's your stroll," Harry agrees, and after grabbing the envelope with the Smarmy Bastard's last case in it, he follows the Victorian spirit out of his flat. After dropping the envelope into his mailbox in the lobby, where the Smarmy Bastard's people would pick it up, he and the spirit head off into the dark evening of London.

The _stroll_ ends up taking nearly nine hours – but that isn't as much the spirit’s fault, as it is the kidnappers'.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry no longer uses much magic. Partially it's the fear of being found out – he is suspicious that the Smarmy Bastard has his flat watched and monitored, and it's not a chance he'd like to risk just yet. Who knows what kind of jobs the man would have for a wizard, after all, when the ones for a medium are already so nasty. Partially though, it's because for a while now he hasn't needed to. He has enough money to get everything he needs, after all, and he's never been too keen on using magic to make things easier for himself.

That, however, doesn't mean he can't.

When he's grabbed off the road by a man in dark clothing, and stunned by a blow to the head, there is little he can do – but when he wakes up in a cell with a camera and an armed man beyond the cell door, it's a different thing. The kidnappers, whoever they are, haven't taken the Hallows from him – he knows that immediately because their presence burns in him, the Ring is still on his finger, the wand in his trouser pocket, the Cloak in his breast pocket. Ever present, as always.

"Interesting," the spirit of Holmes says as Harry carefully stands up, testing the back of his head for bleeding. None, but the twisting pain there doesn't make him feel too happy about the whole thing. As he checks his person for further injuries, the spirit casts him a glance. "Does this happen to you often, my dear fellow?"

Harry shakes his head and straightens his back, wondering. A camera, with a steady red light burning, which meant it is filming him and probably sending a live feed of the cell to someone. The bloke beyond the bars has a gun in his hands, loosely held but obviously ready to fire. Who knows how many others there were.

One against many weren't odds he is unfamiliar with, but without knowing who was taping him and who was watching him, he hesitates. Discovery is one thing he doesn't want, after all, one thing he has tried to avoid. The medium thing was good and bad for that – good, because being a medium he was already so special that people didn't even consider that there might be more there. And bad, obviously, because being a medium was already a bit too special.

"Hmm," Holmes hums and looks at the guard. "There is little I can do to help you in a fight, my dear fellow, but perhaps I can offer some less physical assistance," he says, and then walks through the bars, through the guard on the other side of them. "I shall take a look around and return in approximately fifteen minutes unless something arises. Perhaps I can get a glimpse of whoever is behind it."

Harry says nothing, not wanting the camera to pick it up, and with a smile Holmes heads off, leaving Harry alone in the cell.

"So," Harry says, aiming his attention at the guard. "This is hospitable. Mind telling me what this is about and what you want with me?"

The guard doesn't answer, not that Harry expects him to. The whole thing has a precise, professional flair to it – this isn't just a random kidnapping, this isn't him being held hostage because it was convenient. It's not something hateful either, because if it was, then he'd be feeling the brunt of that already. No, this is something else, this has a purpose, and it doesn't take much for Harry to figure out what they could want.

Either he has summoned someone he maybe shouldn't have, or these people want him to summon someone he really shouldn't. Either way, it is his supposed skills as medium they want, nothing else.

Sighing, Harry sits down to the bench in the end of the cell, staring first at the silent guard and then at the floor. There are so many ways out of a non-magical cell that he can't even begin to count them. And a thousand more ways to incapacitate a person, or a large group of people. He spins the possibilities in his head, falling back to his half-forgotten training as would-be-Auror, considering risks and benefits.

Holmes returns sooner than he had promised to, walking through the wall with a contemplative look about his face. "It is a fairly small complex, two floors and eight rooms in total," he says. "The yard is smooth and fenced. Industrial area, I believe, but the industry of these times and industry as I know it differ greatly so I might be mistaken." He folds his arms, and looks at the guard. "Aside from this delightful gentleman, there are three other men in the building, they are in an office on the upper floor and they have some sort of living image of you. When I paid them a visit, they were arguing about who would go to meet you."

Harry leans back against the floor and folds his arms. So the video feed didn't go too far, there were only four people. That was… easy.

Holmes gives him a look. "Do you have a plan?" he asks. "I will offer any assistance I can, but my capabilities are, obviously, limited."

Harry shakes his head, and looks at the security guard who is pacing the outside of the cell. Guns are unfortunately faster than spells, but if he is careful about it, he could hit the man before he noticed something was amiss. Hopefully living so long as a muggle, he hadn't lost his fighter's reflexes.

Well, all there is left was to try.

Harry shifts in his seat and carefully pushes his hands into his trouser pockets. The Elder Wand jumps to his fingertips even more eagerly than the Stone of Resurrection does, and as Harry closes his fingers around the wand, the old feeling of simply _being in his element_ fills him. It's been so long, since he has gotten the chance…

He casts a silent _Muffliato_ without ever drawing the wand from his pocket, and as the red light on the camera begins to flicker, he draws the Death Stick and aims it quickly and surely at the guard. The stunning hex comes out so powerful that it makes the bars rattle and the man behind them is thrown a few feet backwards, where he slumps. It is over within seconds, and as Harry quickly stands up, _Alohamora_ opening the rattled bars before him, Holmes stares at him with open fascination.

"My dear fellow, you are certainly full of surprises," the spirit says, following him as Harry kneels by the guard. A flick and an _Obliviate_ , and he's done, ready find the other three.

"It does make one wonder what you are. A medium, a magician…" Holmes muses, following after Harry as the wizard heads forward. "Left here, the stairs will be at the end of the corridor…" the spirit advises, and Harry turns left, pulling the Invisibility cloak out of his pocket as he does. It has been ages since he's used it, but it flows over him familiar and utterly comforting. Like a shelter, in all its physical and emotional implications.

He needs to use it more.

"Fascinating," Holmes says, his eyes wandering and not quite looking at him.

Harry ignores the spirit and instead heads up the stairs. A _Muffliato_ cuts off video feed, so the other kidnappers have probably already noticed that something is amiss. There is no moment to waste, so he hurries on and the moment he encounters a man, he shifts the cloak just enough to shoot another stunning spell. As the man slumps to the floor, Harry hurries over him. The third one is as easy to take down as the two first ones, but the fourth makes an attempt at escape, even trying to take cover. It doesn't much help him – it is very difficult to run from an invisible person.

All in all, it is over quickly. Perhaps even disappointingly quickly.

"Well, that was really… something special," Holmes says, catching up with him just as Harry removes the invisibility cloak. "You certainly seem to have some interesting tricks up your sleeves."

Harry smiled faintly at that, pushing the cloak into his pocket and crouching down beside the fourth kidnapper to erase the man's memories. "And in my sleeves is where I intend to keep them," he says, walking to the other two and repeating the procedure. They would wake up with headaches and no idea what they were doing or why – all knowledge of Harry or his abilities would be gone. There was a risk that they weren't the only ones who knew, of course, but for now this was enough as security measures went.

"Have you always been able to perform such feats?" Holmes asks idly, while Harry walks to the computers, and begins to vanish them just in case.

"I was born with the ability. Took some time to learn how to use it of course, but everything takes time," Harry answers and with a wave of his wand vanishes the wires as well. "It's not something I advertise. As modern as it is, this world is a bit too suspicious of all things supernatural. It's bad enough, being a medium."

"Ah. I understand," the spirit nods, giving him a look. "Your own world was more open-minded, then?"

Harry pauses in middle of clearing the rest of the surveillance equipment and stares at the spirit. After a moment, he laughs, and turns back to his task. "I suppose that depends on the perspective," he answers, and waves his wand one last time. Outside the sun is rising – it's been a long night and he's tired. Beyond tired.  "Okay, done. I'll be apparating home, and I don't know if you can follow me when I do, so…"

The spirit folds his arms. "You are retreating, then? You do not intend to find out who is responsible of all of this, or what could possibly motivate such an attack on your person?" he asks, sounding slightly disappointed.

"I'm tired, my head hurts and I don't really care one way or the other," Harry answers, pushing the Elder Wand into his pocket again. "If they try again, then I will deal with them again, but right now I will just get out of here." He gives the spirit crooked smile. "You're welcome to stay, but I think you'll end up being a bit bored."

The dead man sighs and then smiles. "Aside from your astonishing lack of curiosity, this has been quite an experience," he says, and nods his head in what almost seems like a bow. "I thank you for that. But yes, I do believe it is time for me to head back. London has grown very bright and lively since my time, but my Boswell awaits."

"Astonishing lack of – I summoned you, didn't I?" Harry says, though mostly he has no idea what the man means by _Boswell_. It doesn't really matter though "Thanks for the company, and sorry again for summoning you without a cause."

"That is quite alright," Holmes says, smiles, and then fades away.

Harry looks at the spot the man had stood for a moment, before giving another glance around him, and then apparating back home.

The Smarmy Bastard is there when he reappears, sitting in his armchair with his umbrella in one hand and a teacup in other. His eyes widen as Harry appears from nowhere, hand shaking and tea cup rattling against the saucer, before he composes himself. "You've had a late night, I see," he says.

Harry flips him the finger, heads to his bedroom and goes to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

He dreams more often than he'd like, and always about the same thing. Him, Hermione and Ron standing on the shoreline of the BlackLake. Hogwarts is somewhere behind them, hovering and casting a shadow on them like a colossal guardian spirit – and to the left of them, there is the white grave of Dumbledore, impressive and minuscule and utterly unimportant.

And that is it. It's not a good or a bad dream. Nothing happens – they are just there, standing, staring at the water like they are expecting something, but that is probably an interpretation Harry himself tries to instill into the dream to make some sense of it. Or maybe not – because he knows the reason why he dreams of that particular scene over and over. Nothing, but them, the lake, Hogwarts, Dumbledore's grave, and complete stillness.

His mind can't come up to fill the blanks.

It would've been better if it had been a pure nightmare. If Ron and Hermione had turned into inferi right before his eyes or rotten away within seconds, or if they had screamed or accused, prayed, anything. If Dumbledore's grave had broken into sand, if Hogwarts had caught in flames, if the BlackLake had turned toxic and all the creatures below the waves would've floated belly up to the surface. It would've been better. It would've given him _something_ , something to hold onto, something to avoid, anything.

Yet there is nothing, night by night, and he can't get closure. And time again, he wakes to the sensation of void, thinking that there should be something there, that he should feel something. Nothing.

That is how he wakes up that morning too, slow and steady and inevitable. There is no jerk, no sensation of surprise, nothing, he just comes to and finds himself awake with the dream still on the insides of his eyelids. He sighs, heavy and low and not quite annoyed or tired or anything of the sort, and it's just… another morning.

Except the previous night hadn't been _just another night_.

Harry gets up a little faster than he usually does, and checks his flat. It is quiet and dark and at first he thinks it is empty, and that the Smarmy Bastard had left the previous night – morning – like a reasonable human being would've. He finds himself mistaken and the Smarmy Bastard sitting in his kitchen, drinking tea and eyeing the screen of a laptop that hadn't been there the previous night.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," the man says without looking up. He's typing with all the fingers of his left hand, surprisingly elegant, and for the all the world he looks like he almost belongs there, at Harry's kitchen table. Like it was his flat, rather than Harry's. "I trust you slept well."

"You really _are_ a bastard," Harry says, and he can't quite keep the tone of begrudging amazement out of his voice. He has seen dark lords and dark wizards, murders, killers, monsters, and yet he has yet to meet a single individual with as much gall as this man. "What are you still doing here – don't you have places to be, people to bother?"

"Not at the moment. The privilege and advantage of living in the modern era – almost everything can be done remotely these days," the man says, takes another sip of his tea and then sets the cup down. With a casually firm hand he closes the laptop and then looks up at him. "I fear I need to apologise for yesterday. I was not aware of your kidnapping."

"It happens," Harry answers, not entirely sure what he's supposed to say to that. He shakes his head instead of trying to figure it out, and then moves past the man, to get some tea for himself. He fears he will need it, in case the Bastard is feeling inclined to stay for longer and, by the looks of him, he is.

"I have shockingly little proof, but as far as I can tell, you dealt with the situation with a thoroughness one must commend you for. Not to mention skill," the man says, eyeing him as Harry prepares himself a cup. "Your abilities extend beyond those of a medium, I perceive. Far beyond."

"Hm," Harry hums back noncommittally and takes a sip. It's a bit too hot, but the flare of heat is just what he needs, to wake up completely. As he takes another sip, he closes his eyes, thinking quickly. There is a situation brewing here, a very bad sort of situation, and he needs to deal with it.

"I understand your urge to hide yourself, of course. Advantages of the times do come with setbacks and people of these enlightened days might not fully comprehend. And what people don't have the intelligence or open-mindedness to understand, they have the habit of, well. Facing with the exact opposite," the Bastard continues almost idly, leaning back in Harry's chair. "I however already informed you that I am familiar with the supernatural."

Harry snorts softly at that. No, the man actually hadn't – he had only said that Harry wasn't the first. Turning around to lean against the kitchen counter so that he can look at the man, the wizard takes another sip of his tea. "What do you want?" he asks, lifting his eyebrows.

The Bastard smiles almost gently at that, though the hard edge in the gleam of his eyes twists the expression around. "What is the extent of your abilities?" he asks, and when Harry doesn't answer, the man turns to sit on the chair sideways, leaning his elbow onto the top of the backrest. "You have the ability of summoning the spirits of the dead and commanding them. You can create destructive impacts that, despite being incorporeal, have effect on physical objects and people. You can also destroy objects without leaving _any_ traces of the materials destroyed. And then you have the power of affecting people's memories, making them forget entire sequences of events. And last but certainly not least, teleporting distances at least over thirty kilometres."

Harry says nothing at first, too surprised and dismayed. "How?" he then asks. He had used a Muffliato so no surveillance equipment should've worked, and he had destroyed the computers. There shouldn't be anything left behind.

"I tracked down your movements last night through the CCTV network, from which I acquired the proof of your kidnapping and was able to follow the path the vehicle you were transported in to the building you were kept. There, it was only the matter of observing the clues left behind, and questioning the witnesses," the man says, sounding almost bored but with a keen look in his eyes. "Who obviously didn't know much, having no notion of who you are or what they had been doing for the last four days."

"That's it?"

"Obviously not," the Bastard snorts. "There was also the door of your cell you were kept in, which was broken open with unnatural force that left no physical evidence of itself behind, only of the result. There was evidence of computers having been in the building, but the computers themselves were simply gone. Not removed, but gone. And finally you appeared out of nowhere right before me. It was rather hard to miss."

"Ah," Harry answers and takes another sip of the tea. So, there was no actual _evidence_ then, just clues.

"You need not concern yourself. The instigators of the kidnapping have been taken into custody, and the crew will finish cleaning the scene in approximately an hour. There will be no proof of your powers there, you can be sure of that," the Bastard says, leaning his cheek on his knuckles. "However, I am _not_ the only one who knows of this, so if you feel inclined to tamper with my memories, you will soon face the consequences."

Harry smiles at that, unable to help himself. "Wasn't thinking about it," he says, and surprises himself with the realisation that he actually hadn't. The Bastard is nothing if not a man of a million contingency plans, after all, and no one is as cocky as him without some damn good insurance. It's not worth the risk. However, there is still damage control to be done. The question is, how much of it?

Can he keep with the lifestyle he had built, strange and twisted, but oddly comfortable, dead people and crime scenes and all? Or will he leave it all behind and begin anew with a new face, a new place? He doesn't much like the idea – he likes being himself even if he isn't the man he thought he'd become.

"You are thinking of something of the sort," the man in his kitchen says, his eyes almost narrowing but not quite. "Possible methods of covering your tracks, perhaps?"

"Yes," Harry agrees, and sets the cup down. "I wasn't going to let anyone know. The medium thing, I should've never started that, but I'm bad with your usual jobs and I need to make a living somehow," he admits, and folds his arms. "But it's starting to get a bit crowded in the group of people who know my secrets."

"And how many people are there in this group?"

"Me, you and whoever you've told," the wizard says. "I'm grateful for you, in a way. You made everything so much easier for me, with the paper work and the actual work. But you know way too much."

"Ah, but too much is only that when it is used wrongly," the Bastard says, not quite concerned by the looks of him, but something like it. He can tell that there is more there, in the secret Harry has, and it is making him alert. The wizard has to hand it to him – he is very good at being observant.

"From where we circle back to the question, what do you want?" Harry asks. "I summon the dead for you because you pay well and I know that if I don't do it, you will get someone else to do it for you. Because I know that, in a way, you need the information they have for a good reason. But I won't do _more._ "

"Hmm… no, I see that you won't," the man agrees. "Which is perhaps for the best. Your abilities as a medium have already aroused too much interest about you. The men that kidnapped you wanted to talk with a recently deceased government official with some key information about certain… delicate projects of the United Nations. If you had… well, the damage could've been great."

"I wouldn't have," Harry answers.

"Not even with a gun on your head?"

"Especially not with a gun on my head," the younger man nods. "I have morals and I don't _fear_ death."

"I suppose a man in your position wouldn't. It must be… soothing," the Bastard chuckles softly, and then frowns. "And yet, despite your morals, you disregarded my orders and summoned Sherlock Holmes."

Harry paused at that and then narrowed his eyes. "You bastard, you have my flat bugged," he realises. The other man says nothing, just raises his eyebrows at him and Harry snorts. "I did. How could I resist, with you making so much effort to make me not? If you had said nothing, I wouldn't have bothered."

"Curiosity killed the cat, Mr. Potter," the Bastard says darkly, but with a smile.

"I'm not a cat and you're not going to kill me. At any rate, I didn't summon Sherlock Holmes, at least not the right one, obviously. I did have an interesting night with Sherlock Holmes the senior, though – the great many greats uncle of the other one," Harry admits, and reaches for his tea cup again, taking another sip. "I'm not going to tell anyone." He adds. "It's none of my business."

"It was none of your business in the beginning either, and yet you stuck your nose into it anyway," the Smarmy Bastard says, and stands up. "The problem is not only with _telling_ , but also in _acting_. You have become acquaintances with three different individuals who know Sherlock Holmes, who think he is dead and who must continue to believe it. And should your behaviour reflect what you know –"

"It won't," Harry interrupts. "I may not look like it, but I know the value of being thought dead. John did tell me a little about the situation in which Sherlock Holmes supposedly died, and I get it, I really do. Holmes has stuff to do, probably concerning that nemesis of his, and he can go about it easier having that advantage. I'm not an idiot."

"… no, you are not," the other man says after a moment, and collects his umbrella from where it hung from the backrest of another chair. "But I need something more. This information is extremely delicate, as it is only Sherlock Holmes and myself are privy to the knowledge that he is not dead. And, to borrow your phrase, it is getting crowded in the group."

Harry smiles. "I'm not swearing any oaths to you," he says.

"I don't expect you to," the Bastard says, giving him a curious look. "A man's mere word means a little. No. Instead I want to know what your deadliest ability. Call it insurance."

"My deadliest?" Harry asks and chuckles mirthlessly, leaning back a little. It's a long inventory he has, that lists all of his _deadly_ abilities. But the deadliest? "Why would you want to know that? So that you can, what, make sure I won't use it on you?"

"The knowledge would reassure me greatly," the man answers with a mirthless smile of his own. "Your reaction already tells me that you have several deadly skills. Supernatural skills. The destructive force you wielded at the scene of your kidnapping, perhaps? What else?"

Harry laughs at that, not very happily. The way the man says it all almost makes it sound like Harry's holding out on him, hogging the last beer or particularly juicy piece of gossip. "I can bend people to my will, and make them do anything I want," he then says, just to see the man's reaction.

There is almost none to speak of; the man doesn't even bat an eyelash. "Anything?" the Bastard asks, as calm and casual as ever.

"Well, anything that's physically possible," Harry amends. "It's not an ability I use, it's… well. Not entirely nice. I do have ways that can kill a person instantly, of course, but with this one I could make a man walk into a crowded street and kill everyone he encounters, be they strangers or his own family members, so… my deadliest ability."

"I see," the Bastard says thoughtfully, and the casual mask slips a little. The look he gives Harry is a new one, considering, assessing and just the slightest bit confused. Not frightened though, but not entirely far from it. "I suppose there is a measure of gratitude this world ought to feel, knowing that you are a man with some principles."

Harry shrugs, pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "I've seen people abuse abilities like these. I've no intention of joining that club," he says and then tilts his head. "Is that enough of an insurance?"

"Yes, for now," the man nods, taking something out of his pocket. A surprisingly old fashioned pocket watch, which he consults and the puts away with a smooth, well-practiced motion. "It is time I go," he says, turning to collect his laptop. "There is work to be done. I thank you for your hospitality; you have been a most intriguing host."

"You're welcome," the wizard snorts. "You might want to collect your bugs before you go," he adds, making the man pause. "Don't think I'm going to just leave them there. You leave them and I'll destroy them."

"Ah, well. Feel free to do so. They have served their purpose already," the Bastard says with a crooked smile. "Good day, Mr. Potter. I will be seeing you again soon."

"Call ahead – I'll put the kettle on," Harry answers with a roll of his eyes, but as the man leaves, collecting his jacket and just striding off like he hadn't walked in rather criminally, the wizard supposes that he just might do it.

It is weird, having someone _know_ so much. But Harry's always been pretty good with weird.


	5. Chapter 5

For a couple of days nothing really unusual happens and everything seems to settle back to its usual course.

There are no more kidnapping attempts, and though he's pretty certain there is sometimes a dark car following him, the Smarmy Bastard assures him it's nothing to worry about, making him believe that the car is one of the Bastard's, rather than someone else's. It's a bit irritating, but he can live with it, so he ignores the car. It's not always there, after all, and never too obvious – and Harry has spent a great deal of his life being shadowed by someone, so really it's nothing new.

While there is no more mention about Sherlock Holmes who is not dead, there are some about people who are. Harry has a couple of simple cases. A woman who had lost her wealthy boyfriend and who wanted to know where the boyfriend had hid her family jewels only to find that the boyfriend had sold them to keep up appearance of being wealthy. A young man who had lost a father and with whom he wanted to talk about this woman he was planning to marry – who had been his father's assistant. Nothing really unusual or overly taxing – not until Lestrade calls him and then comes to get him.

"I know it’s… well. But we have almost no evidence to go by, aside from the obvious, and we really need to find the rest of her," the inspector says, while Harry crouches down beside the morgue table to take a closer look at the severed head of a dark haired girl. She looks peaceful, and he can only hope she’d been dead when her head had gotten cut off.

"Do you have a name?" Harry asks, because he's not entirely sure he can summon a spirit with only a head to go by. Probably, but it never hurts to be thorough.

"Emilia Morris," Lestrade answers and with a nod Harry summons the poor girl.

Except she is not really poor. "Way too cool. I'm like a headless horseman, except wrong way around," she says, seeing her own cut off head, and Harry has to suppress the snort of surprised laugher that threatens to come through, as she waves her fingers through her own neck, looking fascinated.

Aside from that, though, the case isn't exactly light spirited. She’d been snatched when she had been going back home after spending a day partying with a friend, and that was all she could tell – she hadn't woken up again, not until she was already on the other side.

"Do you think you could find where the rest of you is?" Harry asks thoughtfully. Some dead can, but most lose their attachment to their bodies if they are too ruined and she's seems to be more than ruined.

"I can… feel something, but I wouldn't be able to pinpoint it on a map," Emilia Morris says, and with a frown points at a corner. "There's something that way. And something that way," she points elsewhere, and then again and again. "I think I'm in pieces. How cool is that, someone cut me up!"

Harry shakes his head, and turns to Lestrade. "She might be able to lead me where the rest of her could be found, but it would take a while. Who knows how far we would have to walk."

"We don't have to _walk_ , I have a perfectly good car at my disposal," the inspector answers. "Let's go."

They do go – it takes the entire day, with Harry and Miss Morris sitting in the back, pointing left and right and ahead, as Lestrade drove on. They find her leg, her arms, and half of her torso as the day goes, and by the end of it Harry is tired and the unwilling recipient of a lot of attention as he and Morris show Lestrade and the group of other detectives to the dead woman's other leg.

"How do we know he's not the one who cut her up?" One of Lestrade's underlings asks, looking at Harry suspiciously. "How else could he know all this?"

"Well, they say he's a medium –"

"A medium! There's no such thing as mediums. He's faking it somehow, they all are –"

"Well if he isn't, then how does he know –"

"Obviously because he's the killer. We should lock him up –"

Harry ignores them, and watches how Lestrade carefully takes the severed leg from the rubbish bin and gently drops it into an evidence bag held ready by one of the forensics guys. Beside him Morris is looking around, now starting to look like the whole situation is starting to loose it's fascination.

"They put me in a bin. How uncool is that?" she mutters, folding her arms and huffing, making Harry throw amused smile at her.

"Good work. One more piece to go and we have a full set," Lestrade says, turning to Harry. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Not really," Harry answers, smothering a yawn. "Let's just get this over with, and then I can go and have a good night's rest."

"Right," Lestrade nods and then turns to his people to give his orders – to take the leg to the lab and examine it for evidence, and so forth. As he turns to lead Harry and Morris back to his car, Harry hears one of the inspector's people muttering behind him.

"…Sherlock was a freak, but at least he had some evidence about how he did it."

Harry pauses slightly, throwing a frown at the woman who jumps a little and then glares back, putting her hands to her hips and waiting for his rebuttal. _Freak_ is not a word Harry is particularly fond of, even if the years since have dulled the old sting, but to hear it associated with someone else – someone who is on as serious a mission as Harry suspects Sherlock Holmes is – makes it seem more vile than before.

"You want something, Mr. Medium?" the woman asks sharply.

Harry snorts, and turns away, to follow Lestrade. Despite everything the woman is still a police officer, and no, he doesn't really care what she thinks of him or someone else. But it doesn't mean he has to like her, or play nice with her – or ever talk with her, which he won't. He has wasted enough time to prejudiced bitches and assholes and bigots along his life, and he doesn't have to anymore.

They find the rest of Morris's torso washed up on the shore of Thames, and after it's been collected Harry sends Emilia Morris on her way, and is then sent away himself; Lestrade doesn't have the time to drive him, he has evidence to examine and a killer to hunt down, and Harry has done his part. As he heads off, intending to find himself a cab, he notices the Bastard's people, shadowing him again.

Figuring he might as well take advantage of it, he slows down and waves his not-so-inconspicuous bodyguards closer, and gets himself a free ride home.

 

* * *

 

Harry's resolution of keeping what he knows to himself is put to a test when John Watson calls him after what sounds like a long day at work, and asks him if he'd like to go out for a pint. It hasn't been just a long day, Harry sees as he meets the man in the Master's Mesh. It has been a long week, sleepless and difficult.

John doesn't say, though. He's not the sort of man to go through troubles and then share, no. he's more like Harry than Harry himself really likes, the sort of person who will shoulder his way through anything and never ever tell afterwards. The sort of person who would understand him better than even the Smarmy Bastard does – and who, for that exact reason, will never know all. Harry doesn't want understanding any more than John wants it.

So instead they drink for a long while in silence, commenting on a game of football playing on the telly, or someone who is sitting a little further away, or some event they've read in the newspaper. Harry doesn't really keep up with any of it, football doesn't mean anything to him, neither do the people around them and though he reads the papers, nothing really sticks. But he's mastered the skill of conversing without really contributing and it could almost be called comfortable. Distant, but comfortable.

It's probably that distant comfort that, after two hours of talking about nothing and drinking their way through a good six pints between them, makes John turn to him with a suggestion in his tired eyes. There is more there – the sleepless nights, the deep rooted grief and the _empty flat where he lives, and which he can't bear to share even with a lover_ , and it's almost scary how easily Harry can read that. Because it means that maybe John can read something like it in him. Harry sleeps well, and dreams of the same things over and over again, and can't find his closure, and maybe that's in his eyes.

The wizard turns away, thinks it through. He drinks the last of his beer, and then leans back. Beside him John watches him, leaning his cheek onto his palm and just watching, silent and comfortable and distantly understanding, waiting. "If you don't… well, we can just drink," he says after a long quiet moment between them and turns to his own drink.

"We could," Harry agrees, and looks around. He doesn't like drinking. The after effects are never worth it, and nothing they offer tastes anywhere near as good as he remembers. Firewhiskey had had the taste of flames and magic and confidence and he misses that terribly, whenever he resorts to the awkward taste of muggle beer. Even butterbeer, as juvenile as it seems now, had been better, just because of the magic in it. But then, that is not why he drinks. He doesn't acknowledge it, not really, but he's too self-aware not to know how lonely he is and how much this, being surrounded by people even if strangers, comforts him.

It's not that the dead bother him – the dead and the living have very little differences between them, all things considered. But the dead aren't warm, they aren't breathing, they don't smell of sweat and bad breath, and they don't brush or bump against him when he wades through a crowd of them. He has all the spirituality he needs. He drinks, picking the crowded, cosiest of pubs where people are overly friendly and make buddies at the drop of a hat only to forget them in the morning, because for a living person spirituality isn't enough.

If he took John's offer… there was a promise of more there. Secret places beneath duvets, heated bodies and as much physical contact as he could bear. It would be good too, Harry knows at much, he's not exactly a virgin and he knows some of John's reputation - the man might not be the best looking out there, but there is something about him that makes him easily above average when it comes to things like this. Harry would enjoy that, he knew as much, whatever it was. He would probably enjoy it more than he could imagine now.

… but no.

"Sorry," the wizard eventually says, and waves for seconds. "I'm not really into that."

"So. Not as much gay as asexual. Just like Sherlock," John answers with a sigh, giving him a look that is equal parts disappointment and exasperated understanding.

"No. Not really asexual," Harry answers, leaning back, because it's not that. He hasn't given it much a thought in a while, a long while, but he knows that if the circumstances were right, he would enjoy it very much. He _has_ enjoyed it very much. The problem is the fact that Harry has been selfless too long to keep at it. He doesn't know John well, he knows the man is nice, looks good and has confidence in his own sexuality, but he also knows that the man doesn't really care one jot about him. To John, Harry is just _that medium friend of Molly's who works with Lestrade_. Everything else was just… convenience.

"When I sleep with someone, I need there to be feelings," the wizard shrugs, smiling mirthlessly. It would be comforting, sure. More for John probably than for him, but at the end of the day – or night – that would be all it would be. John isn't his type – the man is too much like him, way too much – and on John side, well. There is a reason why the man has so many sleepless nights, and why looks of bitter hurt flashes in his eyes whenever someone makes the mistake of mentioning Sherlock Holmes' name.

It would be one horrible morning after – and Harry is not good with those.

"Sensible," John answers with a snort, not really agreeing, and gives him a sideways look. "Sorry," he then says. "I shouldn't have… it's kind of weird anyway, with you having the same name as my _sister_ , so there's that. Really, we can just forget…"

"No, no. It's okay. I… get it," Harry says, and he really does because it is tempting. But the awkwardness that would follow, the emptiness of having held something fake, pretending and then going back to normal again… "If I were little less messed up, I'd probably take you up on it."

"You don't need to bother," the other man says, with a crooked smile of his own. "I really don't know why I was thinking – I'm too old for you, anyone with eyes… how old are you anyway?"

Harry flashes a small, awkward smile at that. "You should never ask a lady her age," he answers instead telling the truth, that he really has no idea. Too complicated, so much so that he himself avoids thinking about it as much as he can. It is easy now, though, and so he lets the thought trail away as he leans his cheek into his knuckles, giving his companion a curious look.

John looks oddly cheered up, after being rejected. But then, he had looked guilty asking. "Is it him, then?" Harry asks, almost surprising himself, as it was not what he had intended to say.

"What? Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes, obviously."

"Obviously," John snorts, and then frowns at him. "What do you mean, is it him?"

"The reason you're here," Harry answers, waves around them, at the pub that bumbles on drunkenly, ignoring them. "Long day or a long week at work doesn't make people… well, at least I don't think so. So, it's something more, and really, nothing gives you the urge to drink like people." And it is obvious with anyone with eyes and any little knowledge of John's past. Painfully obvious.

John eyes him quietly for a moment. "Do you ever talk with people you knew?" he asks suddenly. "Like, the way _you_ talk to people."

"No," Harry answers honestly. He had, even if only once, but that was long time ago and he couldn't, not anymore. He shakes his head, not really wanting to think about that either. It never led to a good mood. "Tell me about him," he says instead. "Is he really worth this?" Because there were whole lot of different ways of drinking, but John drinks like a miserable man, sunken in depression. He had been like that the last time too, and Harry really wonders if the man ever drinks like a night at the pub was a happy occasion.

John snorts and turns to look away. He doesn't say anything for a long while, but the silence isn't so much awkward as it is contemplative, as it stretches between them. Around them the music of the club rushes on in its chaotic flow, ignored by the pair of them, until the medical man sighs. "Yes, he was. He was a _singular_ individual."

"Singular?" Harry asks, more in confusion than curiosity now, because what is that supposed to mean? Singular?

John grins, a little awkward. "I've read some weird literature lately… umunique. Individual. Superior?" he asks, and then it's like some flood gate the man had held shut burst open, "Sherlock was… cold, arrogant, ignorant about the weirdest things, and expert about things even weirder. He used to shoot a gun indoors and nearly overdose on _nicotine patches_. He was an incredible actor and a bit of an asshole, he didn't give a crap about his fellow man, not unless there was a mystery or something like involved. Kept experiments in the kitchen, body parts in the fridge. He was… clever, so intelligent that it was like watching a black hole, when he was at it – you got sucked in whether you liked to or not, and then he went and exploded on you."

"And stupid," Harry notes, remembering their first conversation about Sherlock Holmes.

"God, _so_ stupid," John agrees with a groan, slumping in his chair until his forehead met the table. "The most observant man in the world – or the second most – and goddamned blind. Probably a good thing that, though. _Not his thing_."

"I'm sorry," Harry offers, not really a consolation he knows, but there's not much else he can say.

"Yeah, well. I didn't care. He was a… good friend," John sighs, folding his arms on the table so that he can lean his cheek on them. "Didn't want to ruin that. Wouldn't have, except he went and got himself killed."

Harry gives the man a sympathetic look. In that John is nothing like him – Harry has never _lingered_ that badly in his feelings. With Ginny, maybe, but he had been young and she had been pretty and grown up to be a _lioness_ of all things, and he had been, well. A _teenager_. But since then? No. And definitely nothing like this – nothing that would make him grieve two years later. He rather doubts he would ever feel anything like that – he's too accommodating. If his heart would break, he would grieve, gather himself and move on – all probably within the week.

Feeling more than a little bit awkward, he pats John's shoulder, wondering what he's supposed to do. For the first time, he feels a bit spiteful about Sherlock Holmes – and about himself. Missions were important, he knows as much, and really he can appreciate the sacrifice Holmes is making even if he has no personal involvement in it. But now, seeing someone so _left behind_ …

Would it have been like that, if Harry had stayed dead longer than half an hour?

 _Was_ it like that?

"You know what?" he says eventually. "We need something stronger than beer."

"A lot stronger," John agrees and in unison they order something that turns the night hazy and blurry and confusing – and eventually, blissfully forgettable.

 

* * *

 

It is becoming a habit, waking up on John's sofa after a night at the bar. A bad habit, Harry thinks. Not just because for some reason his wallet seems to empty every night they go out at an alarming rate – and Harry is very money-aware thanks to his childhood, so every pound lost makes him feel queasy. But also because they make a bad mix when they drink. John's depression mixes in with his own apathy and they can drink until they can't even see the stars. Harry lived on the streets long enough to know what a dangerous path that is, and thinks it's time to put an end to it – even before the Smarmy Bastard texts him and informs him that John's family has a history of alcoholism and that John is starting to look like he's starting to live up to that history.

John is still asleep, so Harry gets up by himself, finds the aspirin and lays some out for John after taking his share. He spends the following ten minutes trying to make tea whilst suffering a headache, eventually managing just enough to put the kettle on and lay out the cups. Just in time as John makes his way out of the bedroom with a groan, and makes a beeline to the bathroom.

 _Any suggestions for alternate extracurricular activities?_ Harry texts to the Smarmy Bastard while nursing his tea, leaning his head on his hand and yawning, wondering. He really doesn't like the days after drinking. It will be a while before things will fall straight again and though there is something enjoyable about that, with the buzz and the good feeling of being drunk gone, it's not that interesting, not really.

 _I have been for a while of the mind that John Watson would do well with a canine companion in his life_ the Smarmy Bastard answers almost instantly, making Harry snort – because if there was ever a _tone of voice_ in a text message, the Smarmy Bastard manages it brilliantly. It is rather scary too, because Harry knows it's not a flippant suggestion. If the man suggests it, it's because there is something there, something _proven_. It makes Harry wonder if the Smarmy Bastard has studied John Watson the way he studies dead people, and figured out his habits, likes and dislikes.

Considering the Smarmy Bastard's unspoken concern for Sherlock Holmes, whose best friend John Watson is, it maybe that that is exactly it. In fact, it might even be that the Smarmy Bastard is _looking after_ John Watson, in his own way. It would explain some things.

"Ohh, I feel like someone's put a drill through my head," John groans as he finally limps his way to the kitchen, eyes bloodshot and face pale, cane forgotten somewhere and leaving him forced to lean on walls and any furniture he passes by.

"Aspirin. I hope you don't mind, I already helped myself to some," Harry answers, and waves at the cup he had readied. "Also, tea." Small sentences are easier to manage, it turns out.

"Ta," John says, snatches the aspirin up and washes the two pills down with the tea, sinking to sit opposite Harry. He runs a hand through his hair, down his face and then grimaces. "What a good doctor I will make tomorrow. I'll be scaring patients off all day, I bet."

Harry smiles faintly at that. "Yeah," he agrees. It will probably couple of days before the signs of the previous night fade. A very bad thing for someone in John's occupation because who on earth would like to be treated by a doctor with a hangover? "I think I'm going to stop drinking," he says awkwardly and it doesn't come at all the way he intends it to. He meant to taper it down, gentle it in somehow, but his head doesn't work right. "I don't like the side effects too much."

"I don't think anyone really does," John agrees with a sign and takes a sip of his tea, leaning back and sighing heavily. "I probably should too."

"Probably," Harry agrees and gives him a look. "Why don't you?"

"Maybe I will," John answer, but it sounds more sarcastic than determined. He shakes his head and looks away. And for a while they just drink tea in silence, contemplating. Well, Harry at least does, thinking about it all. He goes to pubs to feel like a human being, or that is how it had started. Now, though… He has acquaintances now, a friend in Molly, maybe even in John too, so he doesn't need to throw himself into crowd of strangers anymore to feel alive.

So, the only thing remains is the loneliness that he rarely acknowledges, but which is there. He's spent most if not all of his life in company. First at Dursleys as bad company as they had been, then all the other students at Hogwarts, then at Grimmauld place where Ron and Hermione had ended up moving in with him, living with him for long, comfortable years before everything had gone to hell. It's the mornings that he remembers the best and hates the most now, waking up alone, eating alone, starting his day alone.

"Maybe a dog would do me good too," he murmurs, more to the Smarmy Bastard than to himself, making John jerk a little.

"What?" the other man asks, confused.

"Ah, well… A bloke I know needs a dog to keep him company," Harry shrugs. "I just thought it might do me good too. I never…" he trails away, frowning. He’d had Hedwig, but after that he hadn't been able to get another pet for a long while, it had felt like a betrayal. She had been his familiar, after all, and it was a bond that couldn't just be replaced. It had been long while since, though, and he didn't feel that old guilt for surviving anymore. And the more he thinks about it, thinking back, to Hedwig, Hagrid and Fang, Sirius and Padfoot, and yes. "I'd like a dog."

"That's sudden," John says, but not in disagreement. He looks thoughtful, and as he glances around the flat Harry can almost feel the wheels turning in his head, cogs clicking against each other. "I used to have a dog when I was a kid," the man murmurs. "After the Army I was thinking that I might get one again, but then I met Sherlock and he wasn't really a dog type of person. And definitely not a person you'd trust a dog with. So I never didn't, but maybe…"

Harry smiles wryly and finishes his tea. "You know what? Let's go visit an animal shelter or something. Right now."

"You're kidding." John answers with a groan.

"Am not. I'm getting a dog, and you will come as my emotional support," Harry nods, and straightens his back. "First I'm going to use your bathroom, though. I think I have beer in my hair."

John snorts, but he looks thoughtful as Harry heads to the bathroom to wash up. When Harry comes out, feeling refreshed and with magically cleaned clothing, he finds the man on the living room sofa, with a laptop in his lap. Glancing down, Harry sees the man checking maps for local animal shelters.

They leave ten minutes later, and Harry feels a mixed sort of satisfaction and wonder at the way John seems to feel a little better, his leg seeming much better, just having that small goal of visiting a shelter. The Smarmy Bastard knows what he's saying, the wizard thinks, following the surprisingly fast John into a cab.

The shelter is a friendly place, and after Harry casts a couple of subtle glamour's over himself and John to cover up the way they look, the attendants there are more than happy to show the animals looking for home there. They think, at first, that he and John are a couple looking for a dog together, and when they ask what kind of house they have, John is overcome with a strange fit of giggles.

"Um, we're not together. We're looking for separate dogs for our _separate_ flats," Harry says, while John smothers his sniggers into his shoulder very badly.

"Oh, okay," the attendant says, looking embarrassed, and gives John a look that makes him giggle even more.

"They used to think that about Sherlock and me too," the man explains to Harry, still grinning like an idiot. "I always thought it was _him_ , because he had this look about him, the way he moved, talked. I guess not," he says, and chuckles again. "Do I seem gay to you, Harry?"

"Right now you're very gay," Harry says with a snort.

There are some good thirty dogs in the place, in spacious cages and running around in the back yard, by the looks of it enjoying their lives at the shelter very much. Some of them – the smallest, cutest ones – have _Reserved_ signs on their cages, and as they pass those cages by the attendant explains how this and that family had taken a liking to this and that dog and how they just need to check the living circumstances to make sure that the dogs would be well off. Policy, apparently, which the shelter follows religiously.

None of the dogs strikes a chord with Harry. He doesn't care for the small ones, they yap too much and too sharply for him, as he enjoys his quiet hours and needs a calm dog because his clients need a calm atmosphere when they come to him – which is more often now that he has a decent place to meet them in. He doesn't care for the midsized dogs too, most of them are too energetic and while John takes a liking to a bulldog lazing about, sprawled in the middle of his cage, Harry doesn't much care for the look the bulldog has. He has bad memories about bulldogs.

Lastly the attendant leads him to the very back where the biggest cages and, in turn, the biggest dogs are. Almost none of them are reserved and probably for a good reason – big, energetic and fairly intimidating creatures like them aren't easy to adopt, especially since according to the attendant, most of the bigger breeds have shorter lifespans. Harry barely listens, more certain now that he will probably not find a suitable dog there – when his eyes land on the biggest of all cages there, that houses two enormous dogs.

"Ah, those two fellows," the attendant says, as they step in front of the cage. The pair of dogs, two different breeds, lay in the corner in a loose heap of limbs, snoring away. Or, the grey one is, the black one opens its eyes the moment Harry steps closer, and keeps it eyes trained on him and the attendant.

"They used to belong to old man who died a couple of weeks back – none of his relatives could take the dogs, so they were brought here," the attendant says, crouching down by the cage door. "They're neither of them too young –the Irish Wolfhound is almost six now, and the Great Dane is four. That's why no one's been too interested about them – plus the fact that we'd much rather they'd be taken together than separate, since they've been together for years now. If this goes on, they will have to be… well."

"Hm," Harry answers, leaning his elbow on the cage. They look like… well, not _quite_. Sirius had been long furred in his animagus form, and the black Great Dane has smooth fur. And Remus had obviously not look as much like a dog as he had looked like a wolf and human combined. But still. It is remarkable how much they remind him of his old, dead godfather and teacher. "What are their names?"

"The Great Dane is named Dexter and the Irish Wolfhound Horatio," the attendant says with a grin. "Dexter the Dane and Horatio the Hound we call them."

Harry snorts, and glances behind him as he hears steps coming his way. It's John, who has a thoughtful look about his face. "Find anything?" Harry asks, lifting his eyebrows.

"That bulldog, Gladstone. I think I'd like that one," John says, glancing backward, and the attendant smiles brightly.

"That's wonderful!" she says, standing up again. "Just wonderful. If you'll come with me, we'll draw the paper work and mark Gladstone as reserved, shall we? What kind of place do you live in?"

As the attendant leads John away, Harry turns to look at Horatio and Dexter again, and crouches down. They are really a pair of good looking dog. _Enormous_ dogs too, but Harry's always had a fondness towards big canines, Fluffy notwithstanding. They seem to have good, calm temperaments too, though that was probably due to their age. "Hello, boys," he says, and the Great Dane perks up his head. "How's the cage?"

Dexter's tail begins to wag hopefully and Horatio lifts his head, blinking at the wizard. Harry smiles.

He's never liked cages either.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry is taking Dexter and Horatio out for the first time, getting used to the concept of having two tame beasts gently trotting at his side as he walks, when the Smarmy Bastard calls in. It has been nearly two weeks since the last time – when the Bastard had confronted him in his own home – and Harry is and isn't expecting it when the black car pulls to a halt beside him, and the man steps out, smooth and graceful and holding onto his ever present umbrella like it was some mixture of a walking stick and a sword.

The annoyance Harry feels for having his walk – his _first_ walk with his new pets – interrupted fades, when he looks at the man's face more closely. The Bastard smiles, casual and just a smidge's worth of smug, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It rarely does, of course, as the smile on the Bastard's face is more fake than it is real most of the time, but this time it is different. The man's eyes are different - troubled and tired. And so is the rest of the man.

"When's the last time you slept?" slips out of Harry's mouth almost accidentally, but he doesn't bother to feel embarrassed. So far every time he has seen the man, the Bastard has been nothing less than perfectly poised and looking like he's in disgustingly good health, slight extra weight here notwithstanding. Smug, superior, disgustingly satisfied with his lot in life and just generally _posh_ without actually looking the part. It is… _unreal_ to see him looking like this, almost drained.

The Bastard's smile widens and deepens a little, past the usual automated mask. "It has been a couple of days," he admits without seeming too embarrassed about it, as he closes the car door and then leans onto the umbrella. "I am in need of your services immediately, Mr. Potter. You will be well compensated for it."

"I always am," Harry blinks, confused. He gets paid quadruple digits directly to his account every times the Smarmy Bastard comes calling, and that isn't _well compensated_? What was then? "Well, as always, I am at your disposal," Harry answers, patting Dexter's shoulder absently as the Great Dane whines, trying to get him to moving again. "Do you want me to…?" he starts to say, and then trails away. There is no way he, his dogs and the Bastard would fit into the backseat of the man's car.

The Bastard looks away and then nods behind the car he had come in. There is a black van with tinted windows standing behind it, waiting. "I made preparations for you and your new companions. Do get in," the man says, motioning at the van with the umbrella.

"Alright," Harry murmurs, part exasperation, part amusement in his tone. Of course – he should've known. The presumptuous bastard. The wizard doesn't bother with arguing or indeed asking where they're going, though, and merely guides Dexter and Horatio towards the van. A man in a dark suit steps out and opens the back, where two dog carriers wait for the great hounds. Thankfully neither of Harry's canine companions seem adverse to them, and merely jump amiably inside after a little bit of nudging. Harry himself takes the back seat of the van – and the moment he buckles his seat belt, they're moving.

It takes nearly half an hour to get where they're going – and it's not Harry's flat or any remote industrial warehouse area that the Bastard seems to prefer, no. Instead they leave busier section of the city and end up in a more sparsely build area, where there are less monumental buildings, and more private gardens. Watching the exquisite manor houses pass by makes Harry more than curious – and when the van slows down at a gate, and then slips into the fenced off estate surrounded by tall, old oaks, he begins to feel a little giddy with the feeling.

This is new and Harry finds that as much as he likes comfortable and predictable, he has missed the feeling of being surprised, of being curious and anxious and a little ill with anticipation. It has been a while since he has felt easy enough to acknowledge the feeling, and even longer since anything has managed to move him enough to actually induce it.

The house they stop by is perhaps not one of the biggest or most beautiful manors Harry has ever seen, but it's up there. It has two stories and vines growing all over the front, with weather stained old statues standing in the front, facing the fountain which is not quite extravagant, but not exactly humble either. As the cars pull to a halt and Harry opens the door to get out, he's faced with the fine water mist coming from the fountain.

"This place is yours," Harry guesses, as the Bastard strolls towards him opening the umbrella as he does and turning it to shield himself from the fountain.

"Not as such, but I do have a legally acquired key and permission to use the mansion as I see fit," the man agrees with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, while the man who had been driving the van brings Dexter and Horatio out, handing Harry the leashes. "Please," the bastard says, while the two big dogs sniff about the ground at his and Harry's feet. "Let us go inside."

"After you," Harry agrees and follows him up the marble stairs and through the double doors into a large entrance hall. He's half expecting to find a crowd of servants waiting for the Bastard, but the hall is empty and it echoes sharply as the Bastard turns, pulls the door shut behind Harry, and then locks all three locks in it with a firm hand.

Before Harry can think of a way to form the question of _why three locks, what kind of manor house with nine foot fences which are probably electric and guarded with machine guns needs three locks_ , the Bastard turns, motioning him to follow. Up the stairs at the side of the hall, across a softly carpeted corridor and into an enormous room that can't quite be called a _living room_ , but which was probably just that, judging by the comfy looking sofas and such.

"My apologies. I have no refreshments to offer you," the Bastard says, striding to the largest sofa and sitting down to the middle of it, claiming the entire thing with that easy, almost nonchalant move. "This house is fairly rarely used, and thus has no staff to speak of, only a manager and a housekeeper. Please, sit."

Harry nods slowly, letting Dexter and Horatio loose from their leashes and leaving them to wander about the room as they liked. The Bastard, if he doesn't like it, says nothing and as Harry sits across from him on an armchair, he merely nods with satisfaction. "So," the wizard says, lifting his eyebrows. "What do you have in mind?"

The bastard grimaces, and pulls out an envelope from inside of his jacket. "I have in my hands a difficult and delicate task, that has proven to be something of a challenge. I am in charge of gathering, maintaining and of course conveying to certain people certain… intelligence that can't really be managed by anyone else. The problem is, all the operatives who have gotten anywhere near being useful to me have in the last two weeks started the deplorable habit of dying just as they're meant to report back."

"Ah," Harry hums, leaning back in the seat. His eyes slide away from the Bastard and follow Horatio, who is curiously nosing at the legs of an enormous piano sitting in front of the large, arched windows. "And you need me to summon them and find out what got them killed?"

"Among other things, yes," the Bastard agrees and gives a mild frown to Dexter, whose exploring had led him to examining the man's shoes. "Mostly I am concerned of what they might've conveyed to their killers before their deaths. Most of them were… brutally tortured."

"I see. If it's been going on for two weeks, why didn't you come to me sooner?" Harry asks.

"There were matters to attend to, certain facts to consider – and of course, as trustful as you are, there are certain things about my occupation I cannot easily divulge to just anyone, even a medium," the man sighs. "Not only is the information I need in this particular case a national secret, but it puts those who know in immediate mortal danger. There are thousands of people who would sell their souls, immortal or otherwise, for just a fraction of it."

The wizard nods slowly, leaning his elbow on the armrest and his cheek on his knuckles, eyeing the man. That explained the tired look the bastard wore extremely poorly – he had probably skipped more than a couple of nights, trying to contain the situation. "Right," he says, reaching over and taking the envelope. "We better get started then."

"Indeed. But not just yet," the Bastard says slowly, and looks at him steadily. "I'm afraid I am going to have to extract a vow of secrecy from you first. The information you are about to learn is, after all, secret."

It doesn't take Harry more than a look at the man's wary, serious face to realise that the man isn't talking about verbal promises or even any sort of paperwork involving confidentiality and whatnot. No, he's asking for a _vow_ , a magical one – a binding one. Leaning back and folding his arms, Harry stares back at the man, wondering. How does he know?

"Please," the Bastard says, smiling again though the expression has an admonishing, chiding tint to it. "You give away more than you realise when you speak – more about your abilities and about your limitations. I cannot, of course, be certain of the particulars, but I do know that you can swear oaths very different than those most people can. Your oaths have supernatural weight in them – you made that abundantly obvious when you told me you would not swear one to me."

Harry snorts softly. Of course. He had let loose a little too much during that confrontation – but after the man had unearthed so many of his abilities it hadn't seemed to matter anymore, to guard his words. He wonders for a moment if he should try and go back to the habit, but in the end it doesn't really matter at this point. A lot was out, and the Smarmy Bastard knew enough to assume and guess – and the rest, well. The rest was just more of the same.

He would not do an Unbreakable one – he cannot, at any rate, one needed a third person to do that. He can do it to other people, but not himself. Swearing by his magic, he could do that easy enough, but he doesn't want to, not really. Too many variables and he hates flimsy verbal oaths like that – too easy to bend and break, barely worth more than a simple spoken promise. Not to mention that he doesn't want to say the word magic aloud, not to the Smarmy Bastard. It's easier, being thought _psychic_ , rather than known to be a wizard. Being a psychic can be debated on scientifically. Being a wizard on other hand…

"And if I don't?" Harry asks, more out of curiosity than because he actually intends to. As strange as it is to realise, he has learned to trust his strange employer – the Smarmy Bastard was just that, a bastard, but nowhere near as bad one as he could've been. Harry is not an idiot – he knows the resources the man has, the power he wields, the authority and fear he commands. The Smarmy Bastard has more power at his fingertips than Voldemort ever dreamed off – and that power could've ruined, dissected and cloned Harry a long while ago, if it was the man's desire. And yet he hadn't

The Smarmy Bastard gives him a look, lifting his eyebrows and it's the sort of look an exasperated parent would give a child, asking something they already knew the answer to. It makes Harry almost grin, but he smothers the urge. "Alright. What kind of oath do you want from me?" Harry asks, tapping his knee with the envelope.

"Just that what you learn here today you keep to yourself, and can only share with myself and with my permission," the Bastard says, eyeing him steadily. He makes it sound simple, but the difficulty echoes behind the words because he does really want that, not just Harry's word for it – he wants confirmation. "Can you do that?"

Harry nods slowly. "I can," he says thoughtfully and absently scratches the back of his right hand. Doing it in writing seems the easiest way, though it's fairly _magical_ too. But less so than going ahead and saying something along the lines of _I swear by my magic_ … and so forth. "Do you have paper?"

The Bastard lifts a single eyebrow at that. "Paper?" he asks, as if he has never heard the word.

"Yes, paper, something to write on. I could use this," Harry motions at the envelope. "But I rather doubt you want my blood on it."

"Your blood?" the man asks, standing up and walking to a nearby cabinet. "You don't mean to say you sign your contracts in blood?"

"Only the binding ones," Harry snorts, placing the envelope down and giving his hands a look. It would be easier if he had a knife, but he doesn't and he doesn't feel like asking the man. "Thanks," he says instead and accepts the three sheets of smooth, rich paper offered by the Bastard, examining them thoughtfully. Then, making his decision, he places two of them down, and uses the third to give himself a sharp paper cut.

The Bastard's eyebrows migrate upwards, as he leans in to watch Harry gather the blood from his bleeding finger to his palm. "Can you tell me where we are?" Harry asks, while Horatio whines softly in the background, and Dexter quickly shifts closer to nose about Harry's knees worriedly.

"I do believe it's better you do not know our precise location."

"I think it's better I do, if you want my oath," Harry answers, giving the man a look. "I don't need the address, though. I need the name of this house – what it's known as. What _you_ know it as."

The bastard eyes him steadily for a moment, before leaning back slightly, almost as if to look at Harry down his nose but not quite. "That scar in the back of your hand. Is it a vow?"

"No. It's a memento of a teacher's torture," the wizard answers. "She worded it wrong – _I must not tell lies_ is a guideline, not a rule. If it had been _I cannot tell lies_ , or _I will not tell lies_ , then I couldn't."

"Hm," the man says, and folds his arms. "We are in the Ancestral Home of the Holmes family."

Harry quirks an eyebrow at that, before turning to the paper. The oath is easily enough written, though the result is more than slightly messy, with splotches of red and entirely too big letters. _Whatever I learn in the Ancestral Home of the Holmes Family, I will not divulge under any circumstances, except when the man who was with me when I came about the information permits it. Signed, Harry James Potter._ It is simple, but as Harry finishes signing his name, he can feel the binding come about him.

As he exhales softly, breathing over the page, the bloodied words under his finger quiver, and then burn themselves into the paper. "So long as this remains intact, I won't be able to speak anything I learn here, except with you and with your permission," Harry says, handing the paper now bearing his vow on it to the Bastard. The man accepts it gingerly, and then brings it closer to his face to peer at the now blackened, splotchy words.

"Fascinating," the man murmurs under his breath.

"Sorry about the mess," Harry says, licking his palm clean and sucking his wounded finger in his mouth. "I'd normally use a fountain pen for this sort of thing, but I don't have one at hand," he mumbles.

"Hm. And this is binding?" the bastard asks, while Horatio comes to Harry's side, joining Dexter who had sat by the wizard's feet and was now leaning his chin to Harry's knees.

"It binds me," Harry shrugs, and runs his clean hand first over Dexter's head and neck, and then scratches Horatio's neck. "Satisfied?"

"Moderately. More enthralled, really," the Bastard says, and looks down at him over the letter. "You are full of surprises, Mr. Potter."

"And you're dead on your feet," Harry answers with a snort – even this display of occultism had done nothing to chase away the tired look in the man's face. "So how about we get started with this?" the wizard asks, taking the envelope.

"Yes… yes, I think we shall," the man agrees, placing the vow carefully down on the coffee table, and sitting down on the large sofa again. His eyes flicker between the oath, Harry, and Harry's right hand though, even as he relaxes, leaning back. "Let us begin."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, knowing that the whole thing would probably come back to haunt him the next time he saw the man and… not really caring. He reaches for the envelope and pries it open, patting Horatio's head and then pulling out the first sheet of paper, a photocopy of a driver's licence. It is time to start summoning.

It's well past midnight when he finishes, after some breaks and extremely long and tedious interrogations with spirits that mostly would've rather forgotten their own mistakes and moved on. Not all of them were the Bastard's people – some were his enemies, judging by their reactions, others didn't know the man one way or the other, but they were all linked by a single thing that Harry, had he been a little more fanciful, would call a _conspiracy._

He doesn't really let himself wonder about it beyond that. He has the bad habit of turning musings into curiosity and curiosity into actions – proved by Draco Malfoy and by Harry's summoning of Sherlock Holmes the Senior – and he can tell just by the look on the Bastard's face that this is not something he should pry into. And in the end, it is not the interrogations themselves that make the whole thing seem so very long – it's the fact that it _was_ very long. Over nine hours of straight summoning, with barely a breathing break and _no_ food in the mean while.

Being a medium has never been so exhausting before.

"Good," the man himself says, with a smart phone in his hand, thumbs easily typing something in. "Very good."

Harry lifts a single eyebrow at that, before setting the photocopied drivers licences down and standing up. He's not one for sitting still for lengthy periods of time, and ten hours is starting to push at his limits. Not to even mention that he is tired and more than a little starved – though judging by the way the Smarmy Bastard is fighting just to keep his eyes open, he's even more so.

"So, that's a night wrapped?" Harry asks hopefully, turning to look at Dexter and Horatio. He had taken the time to let them outside and the Bastard's people had been nice enough to provide food for the dogs, but they look as tired of the whole thing as he is, lying in a tangled heap underneath the large piano, whining softly.

"More or less. I, unfortunately, still have more than a long night's work ahead of me," the Bastard sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes and then pushing his phone away again. "I am obliged to you, Mr. Potter. You may rest assured; your reward for this will be more than generous."

"I've no doubt it will be," the wizard agrees, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket and fiddling absently with the Gaunt Ring. It's still warm and a little clammy, after having been on his finger for hours. He doesn't care about the money, though. He's well off at the moment, with little bit extra – his clients nowadays all pay well, and working as a consultant for the Met is nothing to sneer at either. He mostly works for the Bastard because it just suits him, rather than because he needs the money.

The Bastard smiles, taking his umbrella once more and using it to lever himself up from the chair. "I will have my people deliver you and your pets home, then. I'm sure you're eager to wash your hands of me by now."

"Hmm," the wizard shrugs. Aside from the work, the dead people, the whole conspiracy thing, and the whole staying inside for hours thing… he hadn't minded. He didn't mind. "I am looking forward to finding my bed, though," he muses and then frowns at his employer. "As should you."

"Oh, don't tempt me. The concept of a warm meal, a glass of wine and twelve hours of uninterrupted rest has been haunting me for the last week or so. I do not, however, have the time to rest, not now," the Bastard almost groans, shaking his head and then collecting the papers from the coffee table – Harry's oath with them. "Come," he says, turning to leave the room. "The sooner we leave the sooner you'll be home."

"Right," Harry sighs. Well, it isn't his business, he thinks, and takes the leashes, calling for his dogs. Dexter is eagerly up and on his feet, but Horatio gets up with great effort, sighing and giving Harry betrayed looks as he does. He, apparently, had been more than ready to get his good night's rest right under the piano.

"If I may ask, why did you choose such large animals? I admit, they are admirable creatures, but not exactly convenient in a flat the size of the one you live in," the Bastard notes, as Harry clips the leashes on, giving Horatio an apologetic pat and Dexter an affectionate one. They had been remarkably calm about the whole summoning the dead thing – though of course, they hadn't been able to perceive the dead any better than the Smarmy Bastard could.

"They seemed right," the wizard answers. "Why did you decide to have this marathon of occult interrogations in the Ancestral house of the _Holmes'_?" he asks back. "The same Holmes family as that of _Sherlock_ Holmes, isn't it?"

"Well. The manor is convenient. It is one of the few rare places where I can be absolutely certain that there is no modern surveillance equipment around," the Bastard says calmly, glancing around in the room one last time before leading Harry out of it.

"And you have access to it because you're Holmes' handler?" Harry asks curiously. "Isn't that what they call the person behind a secret agent?"

The Bastard gives him a highly amused look, but doesn't answer. Instead he leads Harry down a corridor and a set of stairs, and back to the entrance hall before motioning him to go ahead and exit the building all together. "This is where we part ways," the man says, motioning at his own private car and the van that waits for Harry. "I hope the day has not caused you any inconvenience."

"Inconvenience? Since when have you cared about – blimey, you really must be tired," Harry laughs, unable to help himself. Not just one, but two reassurances about him being well compensated, and now a roundabout apology? Merlin. "Finish your business and get some sleep, Bastard. You're starting to seriously worry me."

"I will make the attempt, rest assured," the man says with a sigh. "Good night, Mr. Potter."

"Night, Bastard. Happy hunting."

 

* * *

 

The payment he gets from the marathon session of summoning is a little frightening, and as he checks his bank statement Harry has to wonder where, exactly, is the money coming from? The Bastard's own coffers, or somewhere else? Is there some sort of budget somewhere that had a clause for paying mediums? It was terrifying to think and so Harry doesn't. It's easier that way – and probably healthier too.

Instead he concentrates onto getting used to Dexter and Horatio, and getting them used to their new lives with him. Thankfully the dogs are beyond amiable, and whether they grow immediately fond of him because he rescued them from the shelter or because he was just loose enough to be able to spend hours on walks, he doesn't know, but he's grateful nonetheless. They're both extremely well trained and well behaved, and, it turns out, extremely useful as far as Harry's job goes.

There is something about having a great dog like Dexter staring soulfully at a client, leaning his jaw to their knees and being friendly and adoring in the sort of way only a dog can. It calms them down in a way Harry has yet to manage on his own. Horatio isn't quite as friendly as Dexter and prefers to lay about Harry's sofa rather than socialise, but there is something reassuring about the old dog's mannerism, how he acts always like there is nothing in the entire world that's worth worrying about.

They also seem to have a keen sense about distress – which Harry suspected could be credited to their previous owner, the sickly old man who had raised them.

"Well, it's like this," a female client, Janice Alberton, says while absently scratching Horatio's neck and stroking Dexter's head. When she had come in, she had been nervous and twitchy, and looked like she wasn't quite sure what she was doing or why and now Harry can only watch with amazement how she leans back, seeming very much at ease. "My mother died two weeks ago – heart attack. It was sudden; she had no heart problems whatsoever, nothing we could predict. One day, she was just… gone."

"Yes, sometimes it can happen," Harry agrees, nodding slowly. There is sadness in the woman's eyes, the sort that usually sent people into tears before him – especially with the concept of spiritual summoning looming ahead. But the woman smiles, looking down at Horatio, and her face remains dry. It's almost remarkable. "So, it is your mother you want me to talk with?"

"Yes. There are… well. There are things left unsaid."

There is actually much more than that. Mrs. Rachel Alberton had had a will, but in her older years she had gotten somewhat paranoid and now none of her seven children knew where the will was kept or how get their hands on a solicitor in charge of it. There was some sort of dispute going on between Miss Alberton and her siblings because their mother had been somewhat wealthy. Harry's client herself doesn't care – she has a successful career – but she can't stand to see her siblings fight over the inheritance. She wants to find the will so that they could have some peace for their mother's funeral.

The whole tale, as much as Harry hears of it, is loaded with emotions and anxiety, but even as Harry summons Mrs. Rachel Alberton to find her to be a fairly difficult woman who has very little good to say of any of her children, it doesn't get there. All of Harry's senses and instincts scream that Janice Alberton was a sensitive woman, easily distressed, and yet, even as Harry repeats her mother's cutting remarks, the most distress she shows is a hurtful look and a frown, but no tears, no crying, not even hitching breath. When she leaves, it is with a smile on her face, spending one extra minute petting Harry's dogs and then heading off with thanks on her lips.

"Well… that was neat," the wizard says, looking down to the two great hounds, who give him expectant looks, Dexter wagging his tail hopefully and Horatio stretching with a yawn.

"Maybe they were trained to be service dogs. They train dogs for all sort of things," John suggests later that day, Gladstone happily trotting at his side, perfectly matching the pace of the doctor's limp. "Back when I… When I was invalided from service, my therapist suggested that I should get a psychiatric service dog – I had some… well," he grimaces. "She thought it would help. If I hadn't met Sherlock. I might've gotten one.

"Psychiatric service dog?" Harry asks, a little amused and confused. Canine shrinks. Who would've known? "Why would your therapist suggest one like that, and not a normal assistance dog? That would make more sense, considering…" he nods towards John's cane.

To his surprise, it makes the man snort somewhat self-deprecatingly. "No one told you?" he asks. "There's nothing actually _wrong_ with my leg. It's psychosomatic – all in my head. An effect of PTSD, according to my old therapist." He snorts again, shaking his head and looking away.  There is a moment of silence, before he glances down at Gladstone, who leers up at his owner with his tongue hanging loosely out. "Gladstone has some behavioural training, but I think that's just what the shelter did."

"Hm. Well, it would explain some things. The way I figure, the man who owned my boys before was pretty ill," Harry muses. "It's kind of weird, though." Great Danes and Irish Wolfhounds didn't have exactly long life expectancies, so it didn't make that much sense to train them like that. Plus, if they _were_ trained, then it was pretty weird that they hadn't been adopted before Harry had come along.

"Could be that they're just smart," John shrugs his shoulders, just as they arrive at the park.

"Yeah, maybe," Harry agrees. Soon after they let the dogs run loose, Dexter and Horatio taking the lead while Gladstone trots slower behind them, and as the dogs go about examining the fenced park, Harry and John find a place to sit and watch.

"I wanted to thank you," John eventually cuts the silence. Harry gives him an expectant look, making the other man cough and look away. "About the other day?"

"The day I rejected you, or the day I dragged you off to get a dog?" Harry asks, smiling crookedly at the man.

"Both," John admits, sighing. "It's… it's been a while since I had any, well. It's been a while since someone has asked me to go out for the night, or vice versa, just for a pint and nothing more. Even longer since I've felt right accepting," he shrugs and looks away. "In the last few years I've ruined a lot of good friendships by trying to force something else out of it while drunk. So. Thanks for not letting me."

Harry smiles at that, both sympathetic and kind of indulgent. He could see where the man was coming from – he has felt the urge to try the same, in the beginning, even if not in the same way. The first days, first weeks… he had tried very hard to replace what he had lost. He had nearly succeeded at it too, before his conscience had caught up with him. Turning to look away, Harry let his smile fade. Not his proudest moment. More like his worst, really.

"Were you and Holmes together for long?" he asks, withdrawing himself from those dark, uncomfortable thoughts.

John jerks slightly and then lets out a sigh that sounded almost like a hiss. "We weren't," he says. "Everyone thought, but… Sherlock was not really into that. And I wasn't really… it's hard to explain," the man shakes his head. "Sherlock was… It wasn't romantic, or sexual, nothing like that, it was… I don't know. A friend said to me that it's the kinship I miss the most…"

Harry lifts his eyebrow at that. "The kinship," he murmurs and then tilts his head back to look up to the sky. That he can understand very easily, that single loaded word, heavy with meaning. Of being understood, accepted, _complemented_ by another person. Merlin, he missed it too. So much.

"I had someone like that too. Two, actually," he says before he can stop himself. "My best friends – we lived together, me, Hermione and Ron. They were a couple, about to be married, but I never felt like a third wheel. I felt more like a piece of a puzzle with them, comfortable in my slot." He trails away with grimace and then glances at the other man. "Something like that?"

John nods slowly, frowning into the distance. "Yeah. Piece of a puzzle."

Grimacing again, now at the wistful, pained tone on the other man's voice, Harry looks away, following Dexter and Horatio with his gaze as the dogs ran about, chasing butterflies. Before, he’d felt bad for John, and maybe a tad bit annoyed and understanding about Sherlock Holmes and his not-death. Now… now he can't help himself, can't smother the spark of jealousy.

Sherlock Holmes is, after all, alive and running about on his secret mission somewhere in the world – and there is a possibility that he'd return, that John would be reunited with his other half.

There is no such possibility for Harry.

"What happened to them?" John asks. "Your Hermione and Ron."

"We got separated," Harry answers, shaking his head and then jerking slightly as he heard his phone letting out a buzz as it received a text message. Digging the BlackBerry out, Harry opened the message, not at all surprised to see who it was from.

_Do you have a means of inducing a sleeping state in a person without the use of medicine or physical injury? Preferably instantly._

Harry lifts an eyebrow at the message, not entirely sure what to make of it. Did the Smarmy Bastard think that he'd knock some of his enemies out? Hadn't the man gotten the hint when Harry had told him about his powers? Unless… Well, it made sense. Harry certainly had experienced it himself – after four sleepless days straight, he had been simply unable to lie down and sleep, too jittery with the sheer lack of it.

 _What's wrong with taking pills?_ Harry sends back, while John looks elsewhere to give his messaging some privacy.

 _I abhor taking drugs. They tend to have detrimental effect on my mental capacity. Can you do it?_ The Smarmy Bastard sends back, and it doesn't surprise Harry in the slightest that the man had realised who the magical lullaby was for.

 _Yes, but there is a chance that only I can wake you up afterwards,_ Harry sends, biting his thumbnail. There are spells for it, of course, several. The problem with spells was that sometimes they didn't run out. Especially when cast with the Elder Wand – which was all Harry had. If he just knocked the man out and left, there was a chance the man would sleep for the rest of his life and no amount of medicine or stimulus would ever wake him again.

 _I will wait for you in your flat, then,_ the Smarmy Bastard answers instantly, making Harry jump a little.

"Something serious?" John asks. "A client?"

"Employer. I'm being summoned," the wizard answers, and pushes the phone back into his pocket. "Sorry, I have to cut this short."

"I didn't know you had an employer. I thought you were more like a freelancer," the other man says and then nods. "We'll take a rain check on our dog date then?" he asks, reaching for his cane.

"I guess we'll have to," Harry says, giving him an apologetic grin, and calls for Dexter and Horatio.

The smarmy Bastard is, like he had promised, in Harry's flat when he makes it there – inside it, sitting on Harry's sofa like he owned it. There was also a car in front of the building with a man in dark suit sitting behind the wheel, but then there almost always was.

"How do you keep getting in?" Harry asks as he makes it inside, letting his dogs loose and shrugging off his jacket. "You can't have a key, can you? Wait, you probably had a duplicate made somehow. I don't suppose changing the locks would help to keep you out?"

"Most likely not," the Bastard agrees with a wry smile, tilting his head back to look at him. The shadows under his eyes are much more pronounced now, and the man is pale and sickly looking.

"You haven't gotten any sleep since I saw you last time, huh?" Harry asks, though he doesn't really need the answer. It's painfully obvious that the man hasn't – even Dexter and Horatio notice it, the Great Dane making a near beeline towards the man while Horatio looks up at Harry and then at the Bastard and then at Harry again, like expecting him to fix it.

"I made the mistake of drinking some coffee yesterday, and now the insomnia has settled in," the Bastard admits, as Harry steps closer. "It is… somewhat embarrassing," the man says, except he doesn't sound as much embarrassed as he sounds just weary. "Normally I have absolutely no difficulties in falling sleep. It is quite the opposite, in fact."

"Yes, well, everyone has their limits," Harry answers, smothering the urge to test the man's forehead to see if he felt as cold and clammy as he looked. He looks away instead, feeling a little awkward himself. "Can you wait for a moment? It'll take just a second to change my sheets and then you can take my bed. You look like you need it." He himself could sleep on the sofa. It wouldn't be the first time.

"It is not necessary –"

Harry doesn't hear no for an answer, and as the man sighs a heavy, put upon sigh after him, he heads to his bedroom and changes the sheets. After that he ushers the man in, ignoring his objections and managing it fairly easily, thought that's mostly because of the man's dead-tired state, making him too lethargic to really fight back.

"I wonder, did you ever consider a career in health care? You have all the proper manners of a nursemaid," the Bastard grumbles as Harry forces him to sit down.

"That's what you get for acting like a baby," Harry answers with a shrug, and after a moment kneels down to tug the man's shoes off. "Do you want to get your belt, or will I?"

The Bastard sighs heavily again, but unbuckles his belt. "I hope you do understand the amount of trust I'm placing in you," he says, pulling the belt off and dropping it beside him. "You will of course be compensated –"

"Stop with the compensations already, all I'll be doing is knocking you out," Harry says, and stands up again. It's pretty weird thing, all of it, but somehow it feels also oddly natural. But then, considering that their interactions usually involve the summoning of dead spirits, this is almost normal and natural in comparison. Even if somewhat strange, socially. "When do you want to wake up?"

"Tomorrow morning, preferably," the man says and lays down with a sigh, looking rather too big for Harry's bed – but then, the man does have nearly a foot's worth of height on him. Still, he looks oddly comfortable there, and regardless of size, not at all out of place. "Seven o'clock, would be suitable."

"Alright," Harry agrees, glancing at the clock. "You're going to have one hell of a headache, sleeping for fourteen hours."

"I already have a headache. I just want some rest," the man answers with an irritable tilt to his lip and looks up at him with bleary and yet still very sharp eyes. "I cannot perform to my usual standards with this level of sleep deprivation, so if you could kindly see to it, I would be grateful. If you don't mind."

"Alright, alright," the wizard says with slight snort. There's the Bastard he knows. "Close your eyes," he orders and as the man obeys with another put-upon sigh, he draws the Elder Wand. There is tightness around the Bastard's eyes and the line of his lips is severe – his entire body seems stiff and awkward. It takes only a faintly whispered " _Obdormius_ ," and all of that goes away, leaving the man utterly loose and relaxed on Harry's bed and entirely dead to the world.

Putting the Elder Wand away again, Harry pulls the duvet onto the man, covering him up. It should be weirder, he thinks, as he shuts off the lights and heads back to the living room. The _Smarmy Bastard_ is sleeping in his bed, because he cast a spell on the man with his permission. It should be weirder, just having _someone_ there. So close. So easily.

Sitting down on the sofa, with Horatio climbing to lie beside him and Dexter settling down nearly on top of his feet, Harry leans back and thinks hard.


	7. Chapter 7

Usually Harry is called or contacted in the morning. Most of the time it feels like the people who come to him take their time to weight the options, taking a day and night and then refreshed they contact him in the morning, at the respectable hour between ten and eleven, ready to face their choices and the consequences that come with them. Be their heart broken lovers or children separated from their parents, the downtrodden looking for a way out of their troubles through this and that treasure their dead acquaintance knew of or hid, or something entirely different, it takes a while before a person can go from wondering to acting when it comes to summoning the dead.

But it happens in other ways too. Late afternoon or early evening, or some other hour in-between or after wards – not all people work by the same schedule, after all. Some people mull over their problems for days on end before, with the backing of spirits and a good night at the pub, they make the leap into the unknown. Though he's more adjusted to the morning calls, Harry can deal with the late evening, borderline night time calls too just as easily. Very few want to meet exactly after calling – or the same day or week, even. In that the Smarmy Bastard is truly unique, because he called and then Harry had to be ready, usually as soon as possible, to serve whatever purpose the man needed the dead summoned for.

The calls that come in the dead of the night, those are special. So special, that Harry had only had to endure two of them, and hadn't heard of his clients since. This was, of course, disregarding the prank calls – he got a lot of those, after the word of his abilities had begun to spread. The people who called in the middle of the night tended to be special themselves. Slightly more desperate than most, and slightly less eager to conduct their business in the dead of the night. And so far each and every one of the two rare cases were not about saying good bye, or discovering some hidden cache of treasure or anything like that. No, they were about forgiveness.

"Please. _Please_ , I can't _sleep_ , I can't…" the third night time caller pleads to him, sobbing into the phone. "I-it was my fault, it was… I need to, I don't know, something, I need to know. God, _please_."

Harry sighs, leaning back on the sofa. He hadn't been able to sleep in any case, something about the Smarmy Bastard's presence made it feel like he was supposed to keep watch, stand guard. It has been a while, since he had felt that, the urge to protect. "Of course," he says to the phone, running a hand through his hair. "Do you know where to come?"

"Yes. Thank you, _thank you_!" the man sobs into the phone, and hangs up without telling his name, or how long he would take. Harry hadn't really expect him to – as little experience as he has of desperation of this sort, he's figured that people tend to overlook things like that when they were disturbed enough. It didn't matter at any rate, he wasn't about to sleep anyway.

"Go back to sleep, boys," he says to Dexter who lifts his head and Horatio who just opens his eyes, as their owner stands up. "No one's going anywhere." Horatio seems more than willing to take the advice, but Dexter follows him into the kitchen, a silent dark shadow, watching as Harry fixes himself and his soon to be client a pot of tea.

 _Will have a_ _midnight_ _client, please don't shoot him_ he texts to the Bastard's name-changing PA while waiting for the water to boil. He's not fool enough to not know that the woman has the house watched – she probably has it surrounded, monitored and in half a dozen cameras all sending a live feed to her personal office. And there were probably snipers on the rooftop, ready to protect their boss against any potential threat.

 _Alright, I will escort him up_ she answers nearly immediately. Harry stares at the message for a long while, before sighing. Of course, the woman wouldn't let an unknown individual into her boss's presence when the man was out cold. What was he thinking? It's all good for Harry, though, so he just shrugs and turns to get the tea bags.

It takes nearly an hour for his client to arrive. The man is shabby looking, with greasy hair and a pallid face, looking like he hasn't been sleeping any better than the Smarmy Bastard. The Bastard's PA doesn't make the man any less nervous, the way she hovers silently behind him, and as Harry guides him to sit, he's trembling slightly, hands twitching at the lapels of his threadbare coat.

"I-I'm sorry, calling in at this hour, but I couldn't… I had to do something," the man says, glancing between Harry and the woman. "I… I heard about you, about what you do, and I just thought… that you might, might be able to help me." He trails away, awkward, now looking at the woman who faces his gaze with a bored look about her face.

"Um," Harry says, looking up to the Bastard's PA. "Maybe it would be better if you waited in the kitchen, uh –"

"Argeia," she says, digging out her phone. "Sure," she adds, and walks into the kitchen without given Harry or his client a second look. The man across from Harry relaxes, even if only slightly, his eyes flickering between Harry and the tea sitting on the table between them, then to Dexter and Horatio who are watching but, somewhat worryingly, keeping distance.

"It's alright," Harry assures, and pours the tea without asking, handing the man a cup without a plate. The shaking of the man's hands would've shattered the thing against the cup, as it is the man can barely keep the cup still enough to not spill the tea on himself. "Let's not worry about that and instead move onto what you want?"

"Peace," the man answers, and takes a quick, desperate gulp of the tea. It does little to soothe the man's nerves, but he relaxes a little. "I… this is confidential, right?" the man asks.

"To a point, of course," the wizard agrees, though it's a bit of a moot point now. Harry has already cast several Muffliatos that day, one of them just before the man had arrived, so he's pretty sure that no one is listening in – except, of course, Argeia who is in the next room and could hear every word. "However if you've committed a crime…"

"You would inform the police?" the man asks, wincing. "But aren't you supposed to be, like –"

Harry smiles. "I'm not a priest," he says simply. "I'm a medium. And I abide by the law just as much as any other person. If I get proof of a crime I think I need to inform the police of, I will." He stops for a moment, looking at the man seriously. This part had sent his second night time client running. "Have you committed a crime?"

The nervous man grimaces, looking down at the cup. "I'm not sure, but… but if I have, then I'd deserve it," he mutters and then takes a deep breath. "I might've killed someone."

"Might've?"

"It was… I was drunk, I don't know if I did. I was driving, and there was… I think I might've…" the man trails away, taking a shuddering breath. "You can tell, right?" he asks desperately. "If I've killed someone, you can tell?"

Harry faces him seriously. He's not a killer material, it's easy enough to tell. Harry's had his fair share of killers, both before and after his leap – with the Bastard he's even had the privilege of getting know some professional ones. This man isn't one of them; he doesn't have the spirit, the backbone, the hollow fire burning in his eyes. If he has killed someone, it would kill him.

If he has killed someone, this person he thought he might've ran over, then it would've been his first and only kill.

"Yes. I can tell," the wizard says, setting down his own cup. He doesn't need a name in circumstances like these, the man was identification enough. "Do you think you're up to it, though?" he asks, to be sure. "Because if you did drive over someone, I will be calling the police."

The man hesitates, looking at him with stricken eyes and a face even paler than he had before. "Yes. Please," he then whispers, looking down to the tea cup again. He drinks it all in one gulp, sets the cup aside, and then hangs his head down. "Please."

Harry nods, leaning back and pushing his hands into his pockets. Times like these make him really wonder, what his purpose in this world really was – what he really was doing with his life. Somehow, strangely, it feels less like a good thing, on nights like these. Less like an occupation – and definitely less like just something he can do because he just happens to have the right tools for it.

On nights like these, it feels like a duty.

 

* * *

 

After the police have come and gone, taking Harry's client away, Harry spends the rest of what's left of the night rereading old newspapers and drinking what is most probably an unhealthy amount of tea. The Bastard's name changing PA joins him in the living room after the police come, commandeering the sofa and saying hardly anything, spending her time staring at her phone instead. She does accept the cup of tea Harry offers, however.

At seven am sharp, Harry ventures back to his bedroom. The Bastard has turned to his side somewhere along the night and lays not-quite-curled in Harry's bed one hand below the pillow, another resting loosely in front of him. There is a frown on his face as he sleeps, but some of the sickly shadows under his eyes have vanished.

He wakes up with a slight jerk, and as he blinks at the wall behind Harry's bed, the wizard smoothly pushes the Elder Wand back into hiding. "Good morning," Harry greets the Bastard as the man turns to look at him over his shoulder. "Feeling better?"

"Mr Potter," the man says, shifting a little as if to stand up, pausing slightly, and then completing the motion. "Oh, of course," the Bastard says, looking around Harry's bedroom. "In my sleep deprivation I rejected the use of medicine and sought your unorthodox aid."

"You're welcome," Harry answers with a snort, and claps the man on the shoulder. The Bastard's usually neat button up shirt is crumbled and wrinkly, and his hair, usually brushed back, is in disarray. It's, actually, a pretty good look on him. "Come on," the wizard says. "I made you breakfast, and there's some tea ready for you."

"Did you, indeed?" the man asks, sounding surprised.

Harry just snorts and drags the duvet off the man, before heading out and leaving him to sort his tie. Dexter and Horatio peer up at him as he does, but Argeia is gone by the time he makes it to the living room. He's not too surprised – having heard her employer awakening, she had probably decided that he was now in a good enough state to protect himself. Or call out if he needed more help.

"Someone has been here. Several someone's," the Bastard says, as he steps out of Harry's bedroom, suit jacket in one hand and the other trying to smooth the wrinkles out of his shirt. "You… had a client, after which you had several other guests, but only briefly. Oh, and my assistant has been here as well, of course."

Harry gives the man a glance, slightly surprised one. He's used to the man knowing more than he really ought to, but usually it was because the man has the technology and resources to spy, extort and simply sneak out every bit of information he needs. This time, though, there is no surveillance equipment and Harry hasn't heard the buzz of a text message coming into the man's mobile. "How do you know that?"

"You still have a tea set for several, and there are lingering odours. Also, you have been awake for a while and you cleared your beddings from the sofa some hours ago," the Bastard says, and frowns. "You called the police to take your client away?"

"He had run over someone with his car while drunk," Harry shrugs his shoulders. He gets a thoughtful look from the man, and sighs at it. "I'm not a priest. I'm confidential only to a point."

"Quite," the man murmurs, still looking at him strangely. "Breakfast?" he then asks, leaving his jacket on the armrest of the sofa.

"In the kitchen," Harry waves, and goes to clean away the damning tea set from the living room table. By the time he's done and taking the dishes to the kitchen, the bastard has already dug into his omelette.

"Feeling better then?" Harry asks, while setting the dishes in the sink, ignoring Dexter who had followed him and was now looking up at him with soulful eyes, apparently wanting his breakfast early.

"Yes, somewhat. I do have that headache you promised me," the man sighs, leaning back. "I… feel that an apology is necessary. Had I been in a better state of mind, I would have no doubt realised what a silly idea it is, to come here like I did. There are other methods to fight sleep deprivation, that do not include disturbing the peace of others. So, you have my apologies."

"I don't need them," Harry shakes his head, pouring some water onto the dishes and then turning to face the man. "It's not like you were a bothersome house guest, being dead to the world."

The Bastard grimaced slightly at that, and turned away, to his food. He finishes it slowly, thoughtfully, washing the omelette down with his tea. Harry just looks at him, before smiling slightly. The man is actually embarrassed. Whether it is because he had come to Harry out of the blue like he had, powered by his insomnia, or because of the prolonged moment of pure weakness he had thrown himself into, by letting Harry put him to sleep for so long, the wizard doesn't know, but it is amusing nonetheless. Except perhaps for the part where the embarrassment is tinged with hindsight-concern.

"I would've thought you'd know by now that I have some morals," Harry notes.

"Excuse me?" the Bastard enquires with his usual dryness that almost covers his confusion.

"I wouldn't poke fun at you, and while you're under my care, I wouldn't let any harm come to you. You know that, or you should," the wizard snorts. The man has been spying and or stalking him enough, after all.

"Oh. Yes, of course I know that. You have quite a firm moral fibre, unusually so considering the times," the man agrees. "It is interesting to know that your confidentiality is flexible, however. Especially concerning some of the thing's I've had you do and see."

"Yes, but you work for the government," Harry shrugs. "There might be some… weird things that came about every now and then, but in the end you work for the good of the whole. And really, to whom would I report you? The prime minister?" There was a very good chance even he couldn't do much against this man.

The Bastard smiles slightly at that and looks away, finishing his tea with a sip that seems almost delicate, before placing the cup down. He doesn't seem to be in any hurry to leave, and instead merely leans back in his chair, turning to look at Harry. "With your abilities, you could have everything and anything you wanted. You would be a first class burglar, and there would be no bank secure enough to withstand you. You have the power of bending me to your will, erasing my existence in this world, and making sure no one would ever catch you. And yet, you don't, you work for a living, and you _abstain_ from using your abilities."

Harry shrugs. "Yes. What of it?"

"In your world, is everyone taught such high moral aptitude?"

The wizard says nothing to that at first, just looking at the man. Of course he knows, Harry's not at all surprised that he does. He does have to wonder how he found out though, what gave it away. There were some powers in this world, he knows as much, though obviously nothing like his. There are mediums, real mediums, since they'd have to be real for the Bastard to bother with them. So, Harry could be just one of them, instead of something else. So, "What makes you think there is a _my world_?"

"Because you're very obviously not from this one," the Bastard says, with a look thrown at Harry. "Your behaviour, your mannerisms, your morals, most obviously your powers and finally the way you interact with the world around you. You're off-beat, distanced, technology doesn't agree with you and you can barely use your own mobile, and even now you have neither a computer nor a television and you don't seem to miss either one of them. And, at times, you look at the world around you like you can't believe it, can't understand it. Therefore, you come from something else completely."

Harry smiles faintly at that. "What sort of world do you think I come from, then?"

"Something where Mediums are the rule, and not the exception. Where vows are binding, and written in blood, were oaths can't be broken. Where a person can control another, and it's not unheard of, where you can force open iron doors like they were made of paper, where instant teleportation is the norm. Where it's not at all surprising to put someone asleep with a word – almost like a spell, I should say," the Bastard lists, and looks at him with steady eyes. "If I were more inclined towards fantasy, I'd call you a witch, a wizard, a magician of some sort. And where you come from, you're not alone, but one of hundreds, of thousands. Where you come from, you with all your powers and extraordinary morals are the standard."

"A witch's world?" Harry asks, and chuckles. Damn, the man is good.

"I am right," the Bastard says, sitting up a little straighter. "I'm absolutely right."

"Yes, you are. And no, not all are taught such a _high moral aptitude_ there," Harry answers, shaking his head, and pushing himself away from the counter, to collect the dishes of the man's breakfast. "Would you like some more tea?"

"No," the man answers, looking at him with a smidge of irritation in his eyes. "You do not wish to speak of it. I understand, but surely you realise that I will not let a matter like this drop."

"I do," Harry says with a mild smile. "But nothing forces me to make it easy for you."

The Bastard gives him a narrowed look, but when Harry's expression doesn't change he sighs. "Can you answer just some questions? Nothing too specific, just something to… ease my mind."

"Ask them and I'll see if I can," the wizard promises, and takes the dishes to the sink.

"Could you, by knowing my name, learn more about me, or force me to do more than you otherwise could? Could you use your powers on me better, if you had my name?"

"I could find you easier, but that is about it," Harry shrugs. "Names are only identifiers, there isn't actually any power in them beyond that. Not to me, at least."

"Hm. I see," the Bastard hums and is quiet for a moment, thinking about it. "If what you say about moral aptitude not being taught to everyone of your kind is true, then… can more of your people cross over to this world?"

Harry hesitates a little at that because he's not actually sure. "I'm not entirely sure, but I doubt it," he says eventually. He had come by accident, and even that had taken so much effort. "I very much doubt it." And really, if anyone could come, they probably would've long ago.

"How did you come here?" the Bastard asks, narrowing his eyes.

Harry shakes his head. "I didn't mean to – I had another destination. I stumbled," he answers honestly and turns to look at the man. "One more question. Only one."

The other man is quiet for a long while, just looking at him, considering. When he finally asks the question, he speaks it slowly, like tasting the words. "If you could, would you go back?"

"No," Harry answers. It's the truth, he wouldn't. There was nothing waiting for him there. "If I could I'd go where I was supposed to go, though."

"But you can't," the Bastard confirms.

It's beyond the one more question rule, but it doesn't really matter, so Harry sighs, and shakes his head. "No. I can't," he admits, turning away. He's known that for a long while now, of course, but it still hurts to admit it out loud. "No more questions," he says, and adds some washing detergent to the dishes before leaving them to soak.

"Very well," the Bastard agrees amiably. "Though I do hope you realise that I, for one, am glad to see you here. Your assistance has proved… invaluable on a number of occasions. A great number of difficult cases would have taken me weeks if not months, without your aid."

"I know," Harry agrees with a crooked smile, and glances at the man over his shoulder, as the Bastard stands up, smoother and poised as ever. "Will you tell me your name now?" the wizard asks, though he doesn't really care at this point. He doesn't need the man's name to know who he is.

The man seems to consider it, as he pushes the chair back and steps closer to Harry. "Will you tell me yours?"

"As boring as it may seem, Harry James Potter _is_ my name," the younger man laughs. "Son of James and Lily Potter, mind you, not John and Jane."

"Ah. I will have your history re-adjusted, if you wish," the Bastard says, looking down at him with an odd expression.

"It's fine," Harry shrugs. "It's sort of easier, being a whole new Harry Potter on this side. It's not like I can be here what I was there, or what I was going to be at any rate," he says. James and Lily still have and always will have a special place in his heart, but they were people buried in another world. It is easier, to leave them behind than to drag them here, to be yet another weight of could've beens on his shoulders. "So it's fine –"

Harry blinks, for a moment completely baffled by how close the Bastard is, by the feel of the man's lips against his own. Warm, pliant even, and gone before he can figure out what is going on or what he's supposed to do about it. All he's left is the feeling of the press against his mouth, the taste of tea and omelette, and the feeling of complete and utter bafflement.

"My name is Mycroft, and I hope in time you will learn not to dislike this world so much," the man says, straightening his back and looking more than little ruffled by his own actions.

"I don't dislike this world at all," Harry answers, still blinking with surprise. "And what the hell was that, Bastard?"

The man smiles, smug and smarmy as ever, and smoothes a hand over his tie. "I'm sure you can figure it out," he says, almost condescending, but not quite, and turns to leave. "Now I'm afraid I must be off. I thank you for your gracious hospitality, though I have to point out that your bed is one of the least comfortable ones I have ever slept in."

"Oi," Harry complains, still confused as he follows the man out of the kitchen. "You can't just –"

"I'm afraid I must. I have already wasted too much time," the man says, collecting his jacket and umbrella. He smiles, and strides for the door. "It has been delightful, and you will be paid for your patience, I'm sure, but now I really must be off. Good day, Mr. Potter."

"You… you _Bastard_ ," Harry mutters, after being left alone with Dexter and Horatio. Shaking his head, he turns to look at the Great Dane at his side, and then the Irish Wolfhound who's commandeered the sofa. "What the hell was that about?"

Dexter wags his tail while Horatio yawns, and neither offers him a satisfying answer.

 

* * *

 

Harry meets Molly for coffee that day. They take the cups with them from the shop they usually visit, and with Molly cooing excitedly over Dexter and Horatio, they walk about, she moaning about how she doesn't have the time to go to the park with him, and him barely answering, too distracted. He still feels it, the Bastard's kiss, lingering on his lips.

"They're adorable, of course, but why such big dogs?" Molly asks, resting her hand on Dexter's back as they stop by a park bench to drink. "I've got a cat myself, Toby, and he's pretty perfect for my flat, but big fellows like these two… doesn't it get crowded?"

"I liked them," Harry shrugs, nudging Horatio's side playfully as the big hound settles to lie down nearly on top of his feet. He doesn't mind it – the mornings in his apartment are cool and having the dog lay on his frozen toes is more than welcome. "They seemed right."

"Hm. Yeah, I suppose I can't really see you with one of those smaller dogs, yapping away," Molly grins and then looks up to him. The grin fades and she tilts her head a little, now looking curious. "Alright, what's up? You look like you've swallowed a lemon. Without peeling it."

Harry laughs, not entirely sure what that's supposed to mean. "Just something… it's not that important," he assures, but her expectant eyebrows ask for more and he shrugs. "A guy I work for occasionally kissed me. I'm trying to figure out what it was all about."

"Ooh!" Molly breathes, straightening her back, eyes shining. "So you're gay after all! Come on, tell me everything. Is he hot? Do you like him? Is he nice?"

The wizard frowns at that, because, well, he has no idea. "It doesn't matter; it's not that big of a deal. I bet he was just messing with me," he says, because that would make sense. Except not; the Bastard doesn't seem like the sort of person who would break personal barriers just for a joke. Or who would make a joke that did not include mocking, dry tones and the type of humour only the high and mighty would understand. "So, how are you?" Harry asks, in a pitiful attempt at changing the subject. "You were seeing that bartender, weren't you?"

"Yes, I am, and he's wonderful, thank you, and don't change the subject," Molly grins a little wider, pushing to his side. "Tell me about this secretive employer of yours. I didn't even know you had an employer. Uuh, office romances –"

"Without offices," Harry laughs. "It's not like that. He just comes about every once a while and I do favours for him – and get paid well for them, mind you, but still. It's barely a working relationship. Actually, it's barely anything really." Except it is, because in the entire bloody world, the Smarmy Bastard knows him the best, knows more about him that anyone else. It is an understandably frightening and surprisingly soothing thought, all at the same time.

"Oh, who cares about that? Did you kiss him back?" Molly asks eagerly.

"No. He strolled off before I could do more than sputter at him," Harry snorts and then gives in, as her hands worm insistently around his upper arm, clutching at him excitedly. "Okay, seriously. It wasn't exactly life changing – we were talking, he completely out of the blue kissed me, and then he headed off. I have no idea what it means or what I'm supposed to do about it."

"So the sneaky bloke just laid one on you and got away with it? Brilliant!" Molly laughs.

"Yeah, sure. But what is it supposed to mean anyway?" Harry asks, sighing.

"Obviously that he's interested in you," she explained with patient tones that were ruined by her wide grin.

"He hasn't exactly shown to be interested before," the wizard says, rolling his eyes. "Except maybe professionally." And as some sort of weird intellectual exercise. The man is pretty interested about his abilities, and his history, at least lately. But then, anyone would be – if Harry himself wasn't a wizard, he would be too.

"So, he's probably been worried about how you would react, and has decided to keep it to himself so that he wouldn't ruin a good working relationship or something," Molly says with an expert nod. "And now you've done something that makes him think that you might be open for something more and he's making his move. Maybe you said something or, or did something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know – something. You come off as pretty uninterested in people in that way most of the time, you know. If not asexual then comfortably celibate, you know?" she says, nodding to herself. "Maybe he thought you were, but then you did something and now he feels better about his chances with you. Oh, oh, or maybe you showed interest in someone else, or he thought you did, and now he's making his move because he's jealous and doesn't want someone else to get you!"

Harry snorts softly at her, as she sighs wistfully, leaning on his shoulder. "Hate to break it to you, Molly, but my life is not a romance novel."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. It's a supernatural thriller. But _still_ , it's got to be something," she beams up at him. "Tell me what it is? What did you do to encourage your heroic employer to take the plunge into the murky insecure depths of romance?"

"Okay, now you're just starting to sound creepy. I didn't do anything – and he is definitely _not_ heroic in any way. He's about as un-heroic as you can get."

Molly groans and shakes him a bit. "Oh, come on, Harry. Stop being such a bad sport – just tell me!"

The wizard sighs, and then frowns, thinking. There is no way, absolutely no way. Firstly, that the Bastard would be interested in him? That's just… well, the kiss was pretty solid proof, but it was still rather weird. The Bastard was the _Bastard_. He probably lived and breathed on the power of sheer self-satisfied smugness. And Harry had done absolutely nothing to encourage something like that. Had he?

"Oh," he mutters, and frowns a little harder. "I… did go out with someone," he says, thinking of John and the clumsy proposition at the Master's Mesh. He had slept at John's apartment too, and the following morning they had gone out and gotten dogs. And the Smarmy Bastard had called for his services the very same day. "Twice, actually," he then says, remembering that the Smarmy Bastard had also _interrupted_ the dog-date Harry and John had set up.

"I knew it! Was it a guy?" Molly asks gleefully.

"It was John Watson – not like that," Harry says, as her expression shifts into something complicated and maybe a little worried. "We just went out for a pint, I crashed at his place, went to visit the shelter – and the second time we met at a park to let Horatio, Dexter and John's Gladstone run a bit. It was completely platonic."

"Oh. Right. Good," Molly says, and leans to his side again. "I'm sorry, it's just. John's like… I mean, with Sherlock, and –"

"Yeah, I know," Harry agrees, sighing. That would be one messy reunion if Holmes would ever deign to come back, but right now it is not his problem. "So," he says, shaking his head. "You think that me going out with John might've, I don't know… triggered something?"

"If your employer knew about it, and thought it was a romantic thing, then sure, I think it might've," Molly says, smiling. "The question now is: are you interested in him?"

Harry frowns, leaning back a little. Dexter is stretching pointedly in front of the bench, looking at him, obviously wanting to get a move on already, but Harry ignores him in favour of thinking about the Bastard. Is he? Could he be? He had said to John that he needed there to be feelings. Could there be something like that, between him and the Bastard? "I have no idea," he finally says, a little helpless.

"Well, is he good looking? Nice? Interesting?" Molly presses on.

"I… have no idea," Harry says again. Good looking? Well he has seen worse looking men. Interesting? That is one way of putting it. "Nice is definitely not a word I'd use to describe him. He's… posh, arrogant, a little condescending, smug, overbearing and probably a bit omniscient," he says and frowns. "And definitely the smarmiest bloke I've ever met in my life."

Molly frowns. "Okay," she says slowly. "That doesn't sound too good. Maybe you should report sexual harassment."

Harry snorts, shaking his head. It didn't sound good, no. But strangely enough… "He's also the most… fascinating isn't right. Absorbing? Yeah, the most absorbing man I've ever met," he admits. "And my life has become infinitely better since I met him." And only part of that was thanks to the money.

"Hm. I appreciate your dilemma," Molly says and turns to look at Dexter who is now sitting in front of them, with the middle of the leash in his teeth, while Horatio snores lightly at Harry's feet. "Maybe," she starts thoughtfully. "If you can, if it won't risk your work and all, maybe you should give it a try. If you don't care for him, you can call it off, right? What's the worst thing that could happen?"

"A magical world war," Harry answers immediately. "Between alternate realities."

She laughs, high and carefree, and he feels a little better – despite the fact that it is pretty much the truth.


	8. Chapter 8

The Bastard, of course, knows his answer to the unspoken question without ever needing to be told. Harry's not entirely sure how he knows that the man knows, but he's absolutely certain he does – even before the two somewhat confused men from a furniture shop come one late morning, bearing Harry's new, expensive double bed, all ready to take the old one way and assemble the new one for him. The wizard doesn't argue against it, and just keeps a leash on his dogs as the two men tramp in and out and leave him with a new bed to break in.

"A bit presumptuous of you, Bastard," he notes, when the Bastard himself comes a little later, bearing a single orange rose. "The bed, I mean."

"A mere gesture of concern, I assure you, nothing more. Your back cannot possibly like your old bed any better than mine did," the man says, handing the flower over with an amiable smile. "You need not read more into it."

Harry rolls his eyes, but accepts the rose, wondering what sort of hidden meaning it might have – because with the man, there was always some hidden meaning. "So, is this social visit, or do you have need for my services?" Harry asks, motioning the man to join him inside, and closing the door after the man does.

"Little bit of both. I was hoping you would perform a… small summoning for me, and after that we might head out for an early dinner. I have a table booked at a… modest little restaurant downtown," the Bastard says, smiling as he takes out an envelope from inside his pocket. "Or if you do not feel like dinner, then I would not be completely adverse to a walk."

Harry snorts softly, accepting the envelope and peering inside. Driver's licence again. "So, just like that, we're suddenly dating? Aren't we going to talk about this at all?"

"Obviously we will be talking about it quite a bit, as is customary with these sort of things, but I didn't think it would necessary to go over the starting steps, since we are both aware of the developments and obviously not adversely inclined toward proceeding," the man says, giving him a look. "Unless you have some unspoken concerns you wish to get out of the way beforehand."

"I do, but let's get this one done before we get to that, shall we?" Harry asks, waving the photocopied drivers licence. "So, Bastard, what do you want with this… Ronald Adair bloke?" he enquires, glancing at the name. Young guy, not bad looking – and obviously dead, otherwise the Bastard wouldn't have brought the copy to him.

"To confirm his killer – and I thought I already told you my name," the other man says, giving him another look, this one admonishing. "It's Mycroft, in case you forgot."

Harry smiles slightly at that. He had actually forgotten all about it. "I'm very sorry, but you should've told me long before. I'm afraid it's stuck now, and you're going to be the Smarmy Bastard for me for the rest of our lives," he says, and grins a little wider as the man sighs. "Think of it as a pet name."

"Very well," Mycroft says, with longsuffering sigh. He doesn't seem too annoyed though – there is actually a hint of humour in his eyes, as he hooks the umbrella on the crook of his arm and nods down at the paper Harry is holding. "Shall we get this summoning over with?"

"By all means."

Ronald Adair is a young, handsome man, both in the picture and out of it. He comes to Harry wearing a slightly rumbled suit and watch so expensive that it almost shines in the dim light of Harry's apartment. Aside from that, though, there is nothing all that striking about him – especially since he seems to have absolutely no idea who Mycroft is, or why he's been called.

"I have no idea," he says, when Harry asks him why he was killed. "I suppose I was shot, but I don't really… Well, I'm not even sure. One moment I was there, at my computer, checking a line of coding for the site, and next –" he snaps his fingers and shrugs his shoulders. "Next I was with my dad."

"You're not sure about _how_ you died?" Harry asks, surprised.

"Not really. It happened pretty fast. My head was blown up a bit, so I guess it could be that I was shot, but, well, it doesn't make sense. Who would want to shoot me?" the young man shrugs his shoulders, leaning on the armrest of Harry's sofa. He purses his lips. "Well, I did discover something in the site – a virus, I think, but I didn't ever get the chance to really check it out."

Considering that the young man worked with online poker, more as a player than as a coder really, Harry can't really see how that is important. That or anything else Adair has to offer – which is very little. His day had gone by normally, nothing really out of ordinary had happened, and then he had just been dead. Mycroft, if he sees anything special in any of it, says nothing, merely sighs with slight dissatisfaction and puts the planner away after Harry dismisses the confused spirit.

"Well, I wasn't expecting anything more, not really," the man admits and shakes his head. "Well it's a thought for a later hour. Now, though, shall we look into those concerns you have?" he asks then, crossing one leg over the other and looking at Harry expectantly.

"You don't have any?" Harry asks, pushing the photocopy back into the envelope and dropping it to the table between them, one hand resting on Horatio's ruff. "In your position I think I'd be a bit more worried, considering everything."

"Not really. I'm confident that if I have anything to worry about from your part, your beliefs of what is right and what is wrong will push you to inform me, and protect me," the man says, sounding perfectly calm and satisfied. "Also, I doubt there is something I must be concerned about – if there were, we wouldn't be here, discussing this, because you would've never consented in the first place. You are, after all, a man who would much rather abstain than risk injuring or damaging another person."

Harry shakes his head. Damn the man, and damn his own morals. "Alright," he says, agreeing, because the man is right in every point. "My worries then. What do you want from me, Bastard?"

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft asks, frowning.

"What do you want from me?" Harry repeats, lifting his eyebrows. "I might not be a genius, but I'm not an idiot. I can, off hand, count some half dozen things you get out from this. Easier access to my abilities, better chance at studying me, at figuring out my past, potentially to have my other powers at your disposal, enhanced protection thanks to whatever personal feelings I might develop, and so forth. So."

The man frowns and then leans back. "In the spirit of honesty, I must admit that those are concerns that I did consider. First and foremost however I gain the companionship of a fascinating, level headed man with admirable morals and resolute willpower. A man who, since the beginning, has shown both commendable levels of understanding and acceptance - a courageous and clever and beyond all independent individual who is not intimidated by struggle or deprivation and who, since the beginning, has met me on even ground."

As the wizard lifts his eyebrows, Mycroft smiles faintly. "And, of course, the fact that I will be gaining the time and attention of a quite handsome man as well is not exactly amiss."

Harry coughs softly at that, his face suddenly feeling heated. "I… right," he says. "Okay. Just for the sake of clarity, what, exactly, made you think of starting… this?" he motions vaguely between them.

"It has been a while since a man, little more than a stranger initially, has stood before me as an equal, neither trying to assert more authority or shy away from mine, but standing steady and firm and level. That struck me early on as something… quite remarkable," Mycroft admits. "I did not intend to do anything about my interest before your discussion with Doctor Watson at Master's Mesh."

"Where you figured out that I might have more than heterosexual tendencies?" the wizard asks curiously, not even wanting to know how that conversation had been over heard in the loud pub. There would have to be bugs pretty close, on their person even, and yeah…

"Yes. And that you might be older than you look," Mycroft agrees. "Out of curiosity, how old are you really?"

Harry grimaces at that. "Do you want to simple or the complicated answer?" he asks, and it's not as much a surprise as it is a relief that at this point he really might not mind, explaining.

"Both, if I may."

The wizard nods. "I was born in nineteen eighty, so to put it simply, I'm in my thirties," he starts.

"And yet you look the age of man in his twenties," Mycroft nods. "And that is the simple answer. What is the complicated one?"

"I've only experienced about twenty years, in terms of living time second by second as people do," Harry shrugs. "In between one world and another, I lost the intervening years. I left in a certain year and emerged on the other side a little over ten years later according to the calendar."

"… so you are as old as you look?" Mycroft asks, frowning, looking for the first time a little worried. But then, that would make him twice as old as Harry, if Harry is estimating the man's age anywhere near right.

"No," Harry disagrees. "I lost the ten years, sure, and my body is probably as old as it seems. Who knows how the details really work. But the ten years in between… they were thousands for me. They were lifetimes – eons," he says, leaning back in his chair. "It's a tricky discipline, travelling between realities. The space in-between is chaotic, uncontrollable, more time than distance, and what seems like it should be a linear path from one to another is actually a labyrinth of spirals and whirls. And I stumbled."

"You keep saying, _stumbled_ ," Mycroft says slowly. "What does that mean?"

"We opened a path – an easy, wide path, which we all were supposed to use to cross over. I… I stumbled. There is no other way to put it. I was there, with everyone else, and the next I knew I was lost somewhere to the side, unable to find my way back to the path. And by Merlin, I tried," Harry laughs softly, shivering. Even now the memory makes him cold. There is no sensation of _being lost_ like getting lost somewhere between realities. It is a small wonder he doesn't get nightmares about it. "I don't know how to explain it. All I know is that I wandered for what felt like eons until I found a way out."

"Interesting," Mycroft murmurs, staring at him steadily. "You weren't the only one there?" he asks, and when Harry just shakes his head, unwilling to share all of it right then, the man nods. "Very well. How old do you _feel_?"

"At times I feel ancient. At times it feels like I've been around this world for a thousand years and more, like I was there, when the Celts lived here and when the Romans invaded. At other times it feels it was just a week ago, when I was in school, when I stumbled here with nothing, but myself." Himself and the Hallows, but Mycroft doesn't need to know about those just yet. "My sense of _time_ is kind of shot nowadays. I don't know how old I am," Harry says finally. "There is no way to measure it."

Mycroft nods and lets the matter slide, seeming satisfied with the answer he has gotten, as flawed as it had been. "Do you have other concerns, Harry?"

"Not right now," the wizard admits, sighing, relieved to get out of the subject of age. It felt as much a hazy tangle as his memories of the time in-between were. "I'll get back to you on that."

The man nods again. "So. Dinner?" he asks, lifting his eyebrows and smiling mildly. "Or a walk?"

"A walk. I don't yet trust Dexter and Horatio not to cause a mess if I leave them alone," Harry explains with a shake of his head. Mycroft makes a slight face, but doesn't argue, merely waiting until Harry has gotten his jacket and the leashes for the dogs.

A walk turns out to be a… interesting idea. Mostly because Mycroft isn't much for it, which Harry figures out just about the moment they exit his flat. Harry is not exactly an athlete and usually takes his time wandering and looking around, but Mycroft takes stalling to a whole new level, all the while looking nothing like it. Plus there is also the fact that they make a somewhat amusing sight, Harry in his hoodie with Dexter and Horatio on leash, and Mycroft with his impeccable suit and umbrella and neat haircut.

"It almost feels like you're my probation officer," Harry snorts to himself, by the time they make it to the park. He has been on the receiving end of some strange looks, but not in a while – nothing, besides looks people usually given to a known medium, in any case. Though what can be called _usual_ in that case, really…

"Have you ever done something to require one?" the Bastard asks, lifting his eyebrows.

Harry thinks back. He's… physically and magically assaulted people, violated privacies, broken into a bank, destroyed borderline holy relics, and caused the death of a person, namely one Tom Riddle, on several occasions, plus worked to take down government and acted, essentially, as a freedom fighter… "Oh, no," he says and gives the man a look. "We're not talking about me – you already know more about me than I know about you. For Merlin's sake, I don't even know your last name!"

"Don't you, indeed? I thought by now it wouldn't be much of a secret, I have given away more than enough for you to deduce it yourself," Mycroft says, looking amused and brightening a little at the sight of a park bench. "May we sit? I'm afraid I'm not much for this sort of… exercise," he says, making the last word sound like something unpleasant and socially unacceptable.

"Deduce it?" Harry asks, as they sit down. Dexter whines with what almost sounds like annoyance, but Horatio is quick to curl around Mycroft's feet, apparently sensing a kindred spirit in the man. "How am I supposed to deduce something like that, it's not like you've given me anything to go by."

"Certainly I have," the man disagrees. "You know some of my relations and access to certain… personal information as well as personal possessions of one particular family. Surely the leap from there is not too great a challenge."

"If you're going to be talking to me like that all the time, this will be one of the shortest attempts of courtship in history," Harry says, but without heat, only managing to make the man smile with the words. Shaking his head, the wizard pats his Great Dane's back soothingly and thinks about it. One family? "Holmes?" he asks, turning to look at the man. That is the only name, only family, that has come up more than once in Mycroft's presence. Sherlock Holmes, his mission, and the Ancestral Home of the Holmes Family… "Mycroft Holmes," Harry says, tasting the name, as the man nods in agreement. "Fits you, but not as well as Smarmy Bastard."

Mycroft lets out a long suffering sigh, but the look he gives Harry is full of indulgent amusement. "Of course."

"It's your own fault, you _are_ a smarmy bastard," Harry shrugs, then turns a little on the bench, so that he can face the man easier and lean his elbow against the wooden back rest. "So, are you related to Sherlock Holmes?"

"My younger brother," Mycroft agrees and makes a slight, complicated face. "So in a sense your assessment of me being Sherlock's… handler was not far off."

Harry grins a little at that. It's strange, seeing so much… humanity in the man. Before he had seemed like an immovable force made of sheer authority and, yes, smarminess. To witness the man being so human, with familial relationships and all… it's oddly comforting. "You must have such a weird family. You, running the world as you know it, him faking his death for a secret mission. What does the rest of your family do?"

"Well, now, that is a secret," Mycroft says with a smile, which widens when Harry narrows his eyes. "I'm sorry to disappoint, but that is as far as specialities within our numbers go. Our family is not exactly widespread these days. There is only myself, Sherlock and our mother in the immediate family, and then here are some distant cousins that we have very little contact with, and that is more or less it."

For a moment Harry considered asking what had happened to the man's father, but decided against it. It wasn't exactly first date material. Not that he had been on dates for a long while, and the ones he had been on had been somewhat one sided thanks to the fact that in that world Harry's life had been an open book for anyone to read – and the people he dated he had known for years and years. "Did you grow up in that mansion we visited?" he asks.

"No, Sherlock and I grew up closer to downtown. The manor house used to belong to my aunt, my mother's eldest sister, who died approximately twenty years ago – no one has lived there regularly since," Mycroft says. "We did however spend some holidays there. The manor is well equipped for housing Christmas parties. Our family might not be large, but my mother's circle of friends is extensive."

"Ah," Harry nods, and tries not to feel a little jealous, the way he always feels when people talk about their own family experiences. Who knew how many years into his life, and he still hasn't grown up from the little boy of the cupboard, hopelessly longing for a distant relative to free him, not completely.

"Is there anything else you wish to know about me?" the other man asks, absently examining the handle of his umbrella.

"Don't make it sound like a chore," Harry says, pushing at the man's shoulder lightly. "This is what people going out are supposed to do, isn't it, to get to know each other?"

"Perhaps, but your past seems infinitely more interesting than mine."

"Not to me," the wizard says honestly – but then, he lived his own past, so nothing of it is exactly news to him. He shakes his head, turning to look at Mycroft again and intending to ask another question, when the small, almost coy smile on the man's face makes him stop. "What?" Harry asks, unable to help himself and flushing slightly, wondering if he had said something stupid.

"You really find my life interesting," the man says, though it still has the hint of question in it. "It cannot have been even nearly as exciting or strange as yours, and yet you really do find it interesting."

"Well, obviously," Harry says, shaking his head. Why wouldn't it? He has never met a muggle so powerful and so… strange and vaguely present before. Mycroft's ability to mask himself is even greater than that of Nymphadora Tonks, and yet the man did it without any aid of supernatural powers, making it seem impenetrable without much effort. It was beyond appealing, to be able to get through it and see the person beneath.

Mycroft smiles, looking away. It's perhaps the most honest expression Harry has yet seen on the man's face. "I admit, when I witnessed that you might not be against pursuing a… relationship, I did wonder about your motivations. Aside from the obvious I have little to offer for someone like you. And what I can offer, money, security, power, access… you do not want, not without earning it," he says and shakes his head. "Foolish as it is, since I know your ethics, your morals, I feared that the… novelty of it might be all that interests you."

Harry blinks softly at that, surprised. If it was appealing, seeing the human Mycroft could be, it was beyond it, to see that the man could actually be somewhat _insecure_. Running his hand through his hair, Harry stared at the man's face, wondering when the familiar features, so often curled into patronising smiles and mocking little smirks, had begun to look so… charming.

"Harry?" Mycroft asks, turning to look at him, and with a shake of his head Harry reaches forward. He has to nearly get up on his knees – Mycroft is so much taller than him that even when they're sitting there is a definite size difference – but aside from that the kiss comes easily and naturally. One hand to gently tilt the man's chin just so, and then a slight lean forward, and contact.

What makes it perfect is Mycroft's instant reaction – how the umbrella is abandoned and one strong arm around Harry's waist, another reaching up to cup Harry's cheek. Aside from that the kiss is almost chaste, but the effortless intimacy that really, really shouldn't come so easily, more than makes up for it.

"Mm…" Mycroft hums as they part, leaving only an inch's worth of space in between. "If admitting my weaknesses will bring this out of you, I shall endeavour to do it more often."

"Don't you dare," Harry says, unable to stop himself from grinning. He's distantly aware of the shocked look a jogger passing by gives them and the fact that he's let go of Dexter's and Horatio's leashes, but at this point he really doesn't care. "I like my Bastard just the way he is, thank you very much."

"Hm. You do, don't you?"

"Yes. Except for one thing," Harry allows, and pulls the man's left hand from his cheek. "What is this?" he asks, tapping the ring on the man's fourth finger with his fingertip, lifting his eyebrows as he does. He's noticed it before, but it hadn't seemed quite as important as it does now.

"Ah, that," Mycroft murmurs, withdrawing his hand and examining the simple golden band in his ring finger. "I hope you do not think me an adulter."

"I think you the sort of man who wouldn't bother with marriage if he wanted something else, Bastard," Harry answers honestly. "If you were married _and_ interested in me, you either wouldn't have made a move or you would've gotten a divorce." Despite everything the man is, unfaithful is not something Harry can imagine him being. To be unfaithful took too much effort, after all, and for Mycroft it was probably as easy as the push of a button, to arrange his own divorce.

"I would've," the man admits, smiling. "It is for convenience's sake, and for appearances," he then says. "I have two different careers, and it helps my… actual job, if I appear as mundane and forgettable as possible in the other. In the beginning I was occasionally distracted by propositions and… well. A ring in my finger made most of those halt."

"So, you pretend to be married to stop people from hitting on you?" Harry asks, a little amused now.

"Well, it has been a while since anyone has, but yes," Mycroft agrees. "It has been nearly twenty years since I started wearing this ring. Back then the political atmosphere was a little different and my… tastes were better hidden, than shown. It was simply easier to blend in as a married straight man, than as a single homosexual one." He smiles softly, rubbing the ring with his thumb. "I'm afraid I've worn this so long that I didn't even think to remove it."

"Oh," the wizard murmurs, staring at the small piece of jewellery. He can't really imagine what it must've been like, because he has never had to face much prejudice for his tastes, just for his blood relations, ideals and accidents of birth and death. To think that a small ring was enough to hide so much. It is a strange sort of shield… but then, the Gaunt Ring is a strange sort of occupation.

"I will remove it, if you wish it," Mycroft promises, and gently pries the ring off. It leaves a band of white around his finger, testament of how long he has worn it. "Times have changed and it isn't necessary anymore."

"Won't it make things difficult, having to explain how you were married yesterday, and not today?" Harry asks, and blinks as Mycroft takes his hand, depositing the gold band into it. It's still warm after having been on the man's finger.

"It is nothing I cannot handle, I assure you," the man says with a smile, lifting his now ring-less hand and brushing Harry's hair aside, thumb tracing the faded scar on the younger man's forehead. "And to be thought a divorced man turned gay will be easier, than to be thought a married man with a male lover."

Harry grins faintly at that. "You presumptuous Bastard," he says, closing his fingers tightly around the ring.

Mycroft's smile widens, and the kiss that follows is even better than the last one.

 

* * *

 

The next time Harry sees Mycroft, it's after two coffees with Molly, a dog date with John and three different summonings, two of which came through Mycroft's connections judging by their nature and how well they paid. It is harder to tell these days, though, since Harry's reputation as a high-end medium, always accurate and easy to approach, just fairly expensive, is becoming better known, so summonings that pays less than three digits are becoming rare.

It's funny, how he's getting so adjusted to it all that it seems the perfectly acceptable norm now, to meet with strangers and talk about their problems, their deceased loved ones or their issues with money and how far a little push from beyond could bring them. There is more often than not an element of greed and selfishness in the whole thing, and Harry is starting to accept it and not wonder at it, even though the ones who want to say goodbye, or find someone, or just get closure are still favoured clients. Even if they have the habit of breaking out into tears in front of him – though that is less now, with Dexter and Horatio acting as an emotional buffer.

With the summoning being the norm and taking less of his attention – it happens so easily now, so comfortably, so automatically that it doesn't really need any consideration – it is the relationship with Mycroft that fills the thoughtful hours in between. It has been a while – years, eons, forever – and it is interesting and somewhat entertaining, trying to figure out what went where and how it all worked, in a romantic relationship. Just the terminology amused him to no end – because his Bastard is not the sort of man you called a _boyfriend_ or a _lover_. Closest to accurate he could get would be to call the man his _significant other_ and he can't, not just yet – not before they have at least half a year and maybe a joined bank account under their belts.

Molly is of course his helping hand there, in figuring it all out. She might not have the experience of romances between men and of course can't relate in the least to the way Mycroft just _is_ , but she has the imagination of a classroom of teenage girls, and a certain way with words that makes it easy for Harry to figure something out, even if she didn't.

"So, you're sure it's worth it, even if he's, what you called, the smarmiest bloke ever?" she asks curiously over coffee and some excellent pastries that she apparently shouldn't be eating.

"Yeah, I think so," Harry nods. There is no way to describe Mycroft and the way he is without making it sound fairly bad, of course, so Molly only knows what he can offer. Arrogant, smug, superior… none of it is very fitting material for a working relationship, but still. All that just made the fleeting appearances of the other side of the man more appealing.

"I don't think I could really be with a normal bloke," Harry admits somewhat embarrassedly. Mycroft brings him flowers, sure, but Harry's not really the flowers-and-chocolate sort of guy. Nor one for sincere heart to hearts and romantic candle lit dinners, perfect outright honestly and an endless flow of compliments. Uncompromising commitment and every single moment spent together. No, that had been his downfall with Ginny, the fact that she had wanted the ordinary, and Harry wasn't, couldn't be. He much preferred the way with Mycroft, not knowing when or how or why the man would turn up, where the lines between work and pleasure really lay, and if there were ulterior motives or not.

It was simply so much more interesting, not knowing precisely where he really stood with the man. Even more so since he was absolutely certain that the notion was not only two sided, but that it would probably _never change_. Fifty years might pass, and that layer of mysteries, confusion and unanswered questions would still be there. And by Merlin, Harry was half-way in love with that idea already.

"I suppose you couldn't," Molly agrees, giving him a look over her coffee cup. "Well, if you end up with a broken heart, my shoulder's all for you, mate. All for you."

"And for your handsome bartender. How are things going on that end?" Harry asks, and the subject is changed.

The dog date with John ends up being a bit more educating, though not about Harry, but about Mycroft. As he and the medical doctor let their canine companions loose in the fenced park, with Dexter leading the hunt and Horatio and Gladstone trotting after him lazily, Harry and John sit down and talk. First about nothing, about past days, about weather, about work – John's work, mostly, because Harry's work is a bit hard to talk about casually.

Then, "Do you know Mycroft Holmes?" slips past Harry's lips before he can think about it twice.

John blinks and then gives him a look that is part suspicion and part worry. "Sherlock's older brother," he nods slowly, not giving much away. "Why?"

"Turns out I've been working for him for months," Harry answers, staring after their dogs. "Only learned his full name a couple of days back."

"… oh," John says, and looks at him for a long while. "You… do your thing for him?"

Harry grins faintly at that, glancing at the other man. "Yes, I do my thing for him," he agrees. "Fifty seven cases from him alone, so far," he adds. Not that he's been counting or anything, but, well, his phone does keep a record of calls and text messages.

"Huh," John mutters, and looks away, frowning. "So, he thinks what you do is real, too?"

"I'd say he does, with all the money he's been paying me," Harry muses, leaning back and resting his elbows against the backrest of the bench. He cast a glance at the man. "Does it bother you?"

"How'd you mean?"

"Well, you must be aware of what he is, really. Me working for him might put a bit of a hamper on this friendship of ours, so if it bothers you…" Harry shrugs, turning away. "Aside from Molly, you're my… well, I don't have that many friends, really, so I could use one that doesn't squeal too loudly at my love life," he grins and glances at the man again.

John smiles, and shakes his head, a sort of wistful look about his face. "No," he says then. "No, it doesn't bother me. It… it makes sense, actually. What you do, how accurate it is… it makes sense, that Mycroft would want in on that," he nods to himself and relaxes again, easing a bit. "That's a tricky path to go down, though. Sherlock told me that Mycroft is one of the most dangerous men in the world, and I believe him."

"I know," Harry nods, because it was in Mycroft's every move, as ordinary as the man seemed at times. "I rather like it though. Wouldn't have started dating him if I hadn't."

John lets out a choked sputter at that, and Harry grins faintly to himself. "Dating," the man chokes out. " _Mycroft_?"

"Yes, well. I have a fondness for umbrellas – I was saved by a man with a pink umbrella, once. Many fond memories," Harry grins, and then laughs at the look on the other man's face. "Yeah, let's change the subject, shall we?"

"Please," John nods, and they do, talking about the news and about a closed room murder John had been looking into in a fit of boredom. Apparently the man had died, shot by the sort of calibre bullet that usually came from hand guns, in a closed room. It was almost filed as a suicide, but there had been no gun, so it was still a bit open.

"Of course, you can shoot pretty accurately with a hand gun from one building to another, but there's no clear shot within a reasonable distance, the closest would be nearly half a kilometre away, so…" John shrugs, mimicking the shooting motion with his hand. "Hand guns are pretty accurate, but not that accurate."

Harry had little interest in muggle crimes and such, but it was an interesting enough conversation topic. Especially when John mentions the victim's name. Ronald Adair. The wizard says nothing about it, of course, he doesn't speak of the Bastard's cases, he values the man's trust more than that, but it does make him think. An online poker champion, shot to death by a hand gun with no hand gun in sight, and Mycroft was interested in the whole thing? Interesting.

The next time Harry meets with Mycroft, it is after a car drive with the man's PA, Cedi, who pays a bit more attention to Harry than she usually does. She says nothing, though, and Harry returns the favour until they stop by the front of a fairly tall building near the centre of London, where she steps out and holds the door open for him.

"You will find him on the fourteenth floor," she says. "Be quiet until you do."

And so Harry is quiet, bursting with curiosity. The entrance hall is vast and sleek and completely empty, and as he makes his way to the elevator and them up, he can't help but marvel at how quiet it is. The fourteenth floor makes the elevator seem noisy, though, as the elevator doors open to admit him first into a corridor, then into a hall filled with tables and comfy chairs, with a screen separating some tables from each other and some potted plants and flower arrangements here there, separating some sections from others. What strikes Harry the most is that the hall is half full of people, men and women mostly wearing business suits, some reading newspapers, others work with computers or palmtops, a few lounging by the windows smoking.

And yet, the entire room is perfectly silent – no one as much as clears their throat.

More curious than before – especially since despite the fact that Harry, in his faded jeans and hoodie, doesn't exactly fit in and yet no one even glances at him – the wizard heads forward. He has to stop for a double take a couple of times, as he mistakes this or that man in a suit for Mycroft, before his eyes land on the man himself, sitting by the open window with a cigarette in one hand, while the other rests on the keys of the laptop sitting on his knees.

Mycroft glances up as Harry approaches, and smiles, lifting the hand holding the cigarette up and delicately holding his fingers in a shushing motion, before closing the laptop silently. He's as quiet as the room around him as he smothers the cigarette in an ashtray and then stands up to lead Harry away, making the younger man even more curious. It's almost like being in a library, except worse and better because it's comfortable and somehow sacred.

"We can speak now," Mycroft says, after they've made it out of the hall, through a couple of corridors, and into a smaller room. The man smiles, clearly amused by Harry's curiosity, as he leans down to kiss the wizard's cheek. "My apologies for the confusion. Silence is imperative in the Diogenes Club. The smallest cough can get you expelled as a member, if you repeat it too many times."

"I see," Harry answers, leaning up and drawing the man into a less chaste kiss – it's not like they're Victorian maidens, either of them, and he's rather curious about what it would taste like, after having seen the man with tobacco. "I didn't know you smoke," he says, withdrawing and not entirely sure how he likes the taste.

"It's one of the many vices I have tried with little success to stifle," Mycroft agrees, setting down his computer and then sitting down and drawing Harry to sit next to him. "How are you, my dear?"

"Well enough. Curious as hell, though," Harry says, leaning to the man's solid warmth and looking up at him with open interest. "Because this place seems personal, Bastard, something you practice often, and until now you've shown me little of your habits."

"Yes, I am attempting to open up a little more, I admit," Mycroft says with some amusement. "The Diogenes Club is something I enjoy greatly – the companionship of people disinclined to waste time in needless pleasantries. It is soothing atmosphere for brain work."

"Needless pleasantries?" Harry asks, amused. "That's pretty weird, coming from you. You're the master of needless pleasantries."

"Appearances, my dear," the other man answers, one arm coming to rest comfortably around Harry's waist. "I suspect by the time we've became more comfortable with each other's presence, and lose the urge to put forth our very best effort, you will find me a somewhat poor conversationalist."

"I imagine so," the wizard agrees, smiling a little wider. He rather likes those words, _my dear_. Especially the way they roll from Mycroft's tongue, as obvious and easy as if it was the most usual and ordinary thing ever spoken. When it most definitely wasn't. "Still. Despite this courtship of ours, you don't call me just on a whim. What can I do for you?"

Mycroft pauses at that, his hand playing with the hem of Harry's hoodie. "Does it bother you?" he asks suddenly. "That your company is not the only thing I seek?"

Harry chuckles at that, leaning in to place a kiss to the line of the man's jaw. With any other man, maybe. A thing like that could make one easily assume that the other is just playing with them to get something, like Harry's abilities. Not with Mycroft though, the man would never bother when there was easier and less personal ways to go about it, and really… "It would be boring otherwise. And I like to be useful."

"Ah, my dear, you are a treasure," the other man answers with a fond shake of his head. "I did wish I could have your aid in something. It does not include a summoning, I believe," he adds, and leans back a little, relaxing slightly. "A… colleague of mine has recently had a tragedy in her family – her husband was killed quite brutally, which happened right in front of their seven year old daughter. Said daughter has since started showing some… abnormal levels of awareness."

"Okay," Harry nods slowly, not entirely sure where the man is going with his story.

Mycroft smiles slightly. "The colleague in question used to be a medium in my employment," he explains. "Her gifts… waned after she had her daughter, and has since only helped me in consulting other mediums. Her daughter is stronger, however, and seems to have some trouble in controlling her abilities. My colleague can't contain the situation and fears that, should things continue, her daughter's sanity will not remain intact. The dead she sees tend to be… violent and gruesome."

As the man trails away, Harry frowns slightly, looking away. His so called ability doesn't work anything like that – he can't see spirits except when he summons them with the Gaunt Ring. He had known that there were spirits outside those he summoned, that there were lots of them, even – but he can't make contact with the lingering spirits, not without being able to identify and summon them first. There's little he knows about what other mediums of the world are going through, not to mention about this little girl.

"Bastard, I'm… My ability doesn't work like that – it's not passive," Harry says finally. "I don't see the dead outside summoning – this room could be full of spirits, and I wouldn't be any wiser."

"I know, I have observed it to be just so," Mycroft agrees. "But you have knowledge beyond that, knowledge about other branches of these sorts of powers. And your ability over the dead doesn't stop at summoning – you can also command them."

"How do you know that?" the wizard asks, honestly surprised.

"The dead never lie to you, not matter how much they want to. And they come and they go when you tell them to, without fail," the man shrugs. "The deduction is a simple one. You have authoritative power over the dead. I do not know how, but it is true." He trails away and then smiles. "Naturally there is payment involved, but I'll understand if you wish to have nothing to do with this case, of course. The choice is yours."

Harry nods slowly, biting his lip and looking away. He doubts very much there is much he can do – he acts as a medium, but he isn't one, not really. "Alright," he says finally. He'd just end up wondering if he did nothing, regretting and feeling guilty, and that's something he doesn't much care for. He's had enough guilt for a lifetime. "I can't promise anything, but I'll give it a try."

"Thank you," Mycroft says, and soundly kisses him on the lips before standing up and walking to the door. While Harry runs a hand through his hair and straightens his hoodie somewhat, the elder man peers out of the room, and calls someone inside.

It turns into a quite interesting sort of afternoon after that.


	9. Chapter 9

Laura and Elena Newman are a subdued pair when they enter – Laura being a little girl in a red jacket and with a frown on her face, following her fairly young mother, Elena, who looks like she has been worrying too much for the past couple of years, and can't quite get the lines to ease from her foreheads. The lines only grow deeper when she sees Harry, looks him up and down, taking in the ratty sneakers and the hoodie, and obviously finding him wanting.

" _This_ is your prime medium?" she turns to Mycroft, who merely smiles amiably and closes the door behind them, sealing the room from the rest of the world.

"Harry is very accurate, yes," the man says calmly, and motions the pair of to take a seat. "Please."

Mrs. Newman scowls, first at Mycroft then at Harry, but steps forward, with her and her daughter taking one of the sofas. Mycroft sits in to an armchair between where they and Harry sit, and for an odd, dizzy moment Harry feels like he's in a hearing or in some sort of fight with Mycroft playing the referee.

"Well then," Mrs. Newman says, giving Harry a look. "What can you tell me about my daughter?" It sounds almost like a dare – or a threat – and in that moment Harry can read much more in her, than in her daughter. She had been Mycroft's medium once, it's all there in the proud tilt of her chin and on her shoulders – in the fancy clothing she even now wears. She had once been in Harry's position and she had gotten well paid, except unlike Harry who has a deep rooted need for saving most of what he earns, she had used it as steadily as she had gained – and she had gotten used to that too.

And then, with the birth of her daughter, her abilities had vanished, and she had been left useless with only a memory of what she had been. It had very nearly turned her bitter – and in some cases, she was, is, and can't force herself not to be. That, Harry muses to himself, can be read on her daughter. They have the same hair style, the same coloured coats, same coloured trousers – and judging by the look on the girl's face, she had the same career as her mother had had ahead of her, if her mother had anything to say about it.

"Hm," Harry answers, and leans back, looking between the two. Mother trying to relive her life through her daughter. He has seen that before – with one Malfoy family and that had turned out fairly badly.

"Well?" Mrs. Newman demands. "Say something!"

"What do you want me to say? I'm not a psychic, I don't read minds," Harry answers. With his customers he's gotten good at reading the nuances though, so that's a sort of mind reading there, not that it needs to be said out loud. Shaking his head, he turns to look at young Laura, who is looking up to him with the sharp eyes of a seven-year-old, except not. Frowning, Harry leans forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees. There's something familiar in the little girl's eyes. Reflections, maybe.

"Why won't they come near you?" Laura asks suddenly, making her mother jump and Mycroft cast a sly glance over them all.

"What do you mean?" Harry asks back, though he's more or less certain he knows exactly what she means.

"The dead. They won't come near you," Laura answers, and turns to look at the other end of the room. "They don't even want to be here because you're here. I think they're scared of you."

"Laura?" Mrs. Newman asks, looking between her and where she's looking, and apparently seeing nothing.

"Ah, well," Harry shrugs. They probably won't come near him because he is their master – even if his mastery over them isn't all that encompassing. Or it might be that it's the Hallows, driving them away – that would make sense too, since they belonged to Death Himself, once. "It's life's little mysteries, I guess."

"Liar. You know why," Laura says, and scowls up at him. Harry shrugs again and she purses her lips. "Can you make them fear me too? I don't want them to come close anymore."

"Laura!" Mrs. Newman now snaps, sounding scandalised. "Of course he can't and even if he could – that's no way… how can you be a medium if the dead run away from you? Think of your future." She turns to Harry and frowns. "All we want is to figure out how to make them less… aggressive. They won't let Laura sleep at night, and she has nightmares. We just need them to ease up, is all."

"Well, that is what you want at any rate," Harry agrees, and turns to look at the girl again. She wanted something else entirely. To be rid of the whole occultism and to be a normal girl, allowed to play with the other normal girls, probably. It's what Harry would've wanted, in her shoes.

"Tell me, Laura. Do you know who the dead that follow you are?" Harry asks.

"Can't you see them yourself?"

"No I can't, and even if I could the chances of me knowing them is pretty thin," the wizard smiles. "So why don't you tell me about them?"

"You can't?" Mrs. Newman asks, and turns to Mycroft. "He can't even see the – what kind of medium is he?"

Mycroft just smiles, and looks at Harry and Laura. Harry shrugs his shoulders at the outraged looking woman and directs his attention at Laura, who after a moment of biting her lower lip turns to look at the corner of the room. Then she begins explaining. A burned man and a man with a bleeding wound in his chest, a woman with her head cut off, another with a hole in her forehead, an elderly man with no arms, and a young boy with slashes all over his body, and so on. As she rattles out the descriptions, Mrs. Newman grows pale beside her – and Mycroft starts to frown.

"What is it?" Harry asks.

"Mrs. Newman worked for me for many years, and thorough those years we had, like I have with you, cases. The spirits young Laura is describing are among the people whose deaths we couldn't get any explanations for and whose identities we sometimes couldn't discover," Mycroft explains.

"It's my failures that are haunting Laura?" the woman asks, her hands shaking a little. "But, but I did my best to send those spirits onward, I –"

Harry purses his lips, looking into the corner which, to him, seems empty. After Hogwarts and his original world, he's never interacted with spirits without having summoned them first – the world he is in now was different, and the spirits not as obvious. In truth, he been a bit glad of that, and had done nothing to rectify that, hadn't even wanted to see the dead outside what he did with the ring. But…

He turns to look at Laura, who is staring at her knees. For her age she is strong and wise, but not enough to solve this, not strong enough to understand. She can't even look at the dead that follow her, and she's scared. Trying to ease the spirits away through her wouldn't work – all it would do was give her more nightmares.

"Alright," Harry murmurs, and leans back where he sits, thinking it through. Necromancy was never his cup of tea, one way or the other, not outside owning the Hallows… but there's something there, in the back of his head. Some amalgamation of the long forgotten research he, Hermione and Ron had done, trying to figure out a way to defeat Voldemort – and the ethereal awareness he has of the Hallows themselves, the call of the Wand and the shielding presence of the Cloak and, of course, the Ring that now feels more a part of him than either of the two ever did. The artefacts of Death, in the hands of the Master of Death, a heady combination that is, despite how he tries to ignore it, seeping into his bones.

He had left them behind, after all, at least two of them. The Wand had been in Dumbledore's grave, the Ring lost in the Forbidden Forest, forgotten and gleefully abandoned only to reappear at his side at his stumble. They had been a blessing, the wand especially – his own had been lost, and so the Elder Wand had been all he had. But still. They had been with him as if they were a part of him.

And nowadays, saying that they aren't is an obvious lie if there ever was one. They're such a part of him, that only he can perceive them – proven by the single fact that, despite all this time, Mycroft still didn't know, or even _notice,_ that Harry put his hands into his pockets every time he summoned.

"Alright," the wizard says again, and reaches for his pocket. The ring slips onto his finger even without him trying. "Let's see what we can do," he says, turns the ring, and wills all the spirits in the room to come to him.

Laura lets out a quiet shriek and jumps back, as the dead appear between her and Harry – all dozen or so of them. While Mrs. Newman attempts to soothe her surprised daughter, Harry leans back, staring from one dead to another.

They are nothing like he's used to. The dead he sees are whole, for the most part satisfied, and already enjoying the peace of the afterlife. Aside from the occasional grumpy spirit, he sees _complete_ souls. These aren't that – these are flickering, faded afterimages of souls that had already passed on, leaving only an echo of their pained cries behind. It's the first time Harry has had any reason to see that there is some difference, between a _soul_ and a _spirit_. He summons _souls,_ he deals with _souls._ Mediums, on other hand only deal with the afterimages, the _spirits_.

"Well then," he says, glancing down to Laura who sits now huddled to her mother's side, unwilling to look up. "Let's untangle this mess."

It's not easy. Unlike the souls with their memories and intelligence intact – and often increased – the spirits barely remember anything, but the emotion they had been feeling in death, so there is little they can offer to him in a way of explanation. They can't even ask for the help they've obviously come to get. And, more than that, they are confused and nearly terrified of Harry. It reminds Harry a little of the Ghosts of Hogwarts – there had been a period when they had been giving him the wide berth too.

Thankfully, Harry doesn't need the spirits to speak. Now that he can see them, hear them, he can easily call the corresponding souls. Jack Adams who was burned alive by an arsonist, Jake Dryff who was torn open with a chain saw by a co-worker, Amanda Smith who had been beheaded by her boyfriend, Daniela Hollander who had been shot by a man she had thought to be her friend, Oliver Callaghan who had been the victim of a group of drunken and drugged hooligans, little Jeffrey Jones who had been killed by his stepmother…

One by one, the souls come as he calls, and as Harry explains their histories to Mycroft who writes them down in his planner, the souls collect their broken spirits, and move on. As they do, Laura stares at Harry with wide eyes, uncomprehending and amazed by how easily he does what she can't, and clears the room.  Mrs. Newman looks at Harry with wide eyes as well, but it is jealousy and bitterness in them and a little bit of fear, that makes her clutch onto her daughter harder.

"That's the last of them," Harry says, when Tom Quinn leaves with his badly torn spirit. The wizard looks down from where the soul and the spirit had left, and at Laura. "Are there any more spirits here?" he asks, and she shakes her head quickly. "Good," he nods, and as she untangles herself from her mother, he smiles. "Do you still want to not see them anymore?"

Mrs. Newman says nothing this time, biting her lip and glancing between Harry and the smug looking Mycroft. Apparently all job opportunities and glorious futures as a medium she had been planning for her daughter are crumbling, and as she looks down at Laura, she nods her approval. "Whatever you want, honey," she says, kissing the girl's forehead.

"Is… is there a way to stop them now, but make them come back later, if I want them to?" she asks.

"Yes," Harry nods. Something that had been barely there, in the back of his head, is blown wide open now and he _knows_ _how_. It's not even hard, not really. "Do you think you'd like to try being a medium later on, then?"

"Maybe. I don't like it now, but maybe, when I'm older," Laura shrugs, and looks up to her mother. "I want to go to school first. Can I, mum?"

"Of course you can," she promises and looks up to Harry. "How will we do this?"

"Well… I need to make something first, and I can't here," Harry answers, thinking. He'd need silver too… shaking his head, he turns to Mycroft. "I need to pop back home for a moment. Shouldn't take more than half an hour."

"By all means," Mycroft says. "We will of course wait."

Harry nods, and turns to Laura and Mrs. Newman. "Be back soon," he says, and gets up from his chair. Mycroft nods to a door on the side of the room and Harry steps out into a empty corridor where, after a glance around, he Disapparates home.

Getting the silver is easier than he thinks – there is a jewellery store near his apartment, and a quick step in and out gives him a chain and a cheap silver bracelet which will do nicely. While Horatio and Dexter, who to Harry's relief hadn't gotten into any trouble and had apparently been sleeping the time he had been out, watch, he uses the Elder Wand to transfigure the silver in midair, floating it in front of him into a new shape. First a triangle, then a circle inside of it, and then a line from the top of the triangle and through the circle. The symbol of the Deathly Hallows.

And of the Master of Death.

Pulling the ring out of his pocket, he slipped it on his finger and closed his hand around the symbol he had created. "Whoever wears this is under my protection," he says, forcing the oath into the silver. "No dead spirit or soul of any kind shall approach those who wear this."

The silver seems to gleam as he opens his hand, echoing and vibrating with the power he had forced into it. Satisfied, Harry eases the symbol onto the chain, and then Apparates back to the corridor of the Diogenes Club, and returns to his employer and his clients.

"Wear this and the spirits won't come anywhere near you," he says, handing the pendant he had made to the little girl. "Take it off, and everything will be like it was. Alright?"

"Thank you," Laura says, and despite obviously wanting to ask a million questions, her mother merely echoes her words. They leave a little after, Laura looking much brighter and younger than she had when she had walked in, and some of the weight having dispersed itself from her mother's shoulders.

"Interesting," Mycroft says, as the door closes behind them. "Difference between soul and a spirit. Fascinating," he adds and then looks at Harry. "That pendant, however… it was an interesting symbol. You wouldn't be considering starting a cult, hm?"

"Oh, shove it, you Bastard," Harry says, sighing. He can feel it, some sort of change uncoiling inside him, and he's not yet sure what it means or how much he likes it. He had known it before, he had used it, and taken advantage of it, but this is first time he _feels_ it. The Master of Death he has, somewhere along the way, started turning into.

 

* * *

 

It's the beginning of something. And not just the awareness of the shadows that flicker here and there, hanging about this street or that person, flittering between the corridors in the local shopping mall, but also a new sort of clientele starts coming to Harry at odd hours of the evening, not for a summoning – but for advice, for relief and sometimes, for understanding. Mrs. Newman spreads the word of Harry with nothing held back and suddenly Harry is meeting more mediums than he had thought there was in the world.

It is interesting, though. Some of them are old, others young, some men and some women. Some have tragedies in their past, atrocities they've witnessed, deaths they hadn't been able to stop – but some, some just _are_ , with nothing lost or gained along the way, some were just born that way. There is the element of unknown about all of them, though, just like there was on Laura and Elena Newman – that they, themselves, weren't entirely sure what they were, or how they could do what they could.

And all of them tended to have their share of failures, whether it is a failure to send a spirit onward, or a failure to call for one, or to understand one once the spirit had come through. Most of them come to Harry in hopes of having those old and new hurts soothed and released as if he was a massage therapist with particularly good skill at reliving years' old tension.

"It was nineteen ninety seven, I think. A building burned in Los Angeles, with twenty or so people inside it. They called me to make sure that none of those spirits stayed behind, you know, before they started rebuilding," says one of them. "The contractor was a spiritual guy like that. I managed to send most of them away, but there were a couple that I just… I could never make out what they were trying to say…"

"It's my grandfather," another snaps, half annoyed and half exasperated. "He was a mean asshole, died when I was about thirteen. We all hated him, he drank, he swore like nobody's business and of course he beat everyone he could – abused my mom when she was a kid, like real bad. God, we were so happy to see him go – but no, of course not, he had to hang about, haunting my mom…"

"There were these two girls, twins, about fourteen," yet another explains. "They were murder victims – and the murderer, he did all sorts of nasty things to them before… well, before we found them. Well, I say we, but I was the one who did all the work, took me nearly two days of non-stop screening to manage it. After that, though… Well, whoever that bastard was, he did something really horrible. The kids, those poor girls, they…"

And so on. It is nearly startling how many of them are stalked, followed and sometimes outright molested by the spirits they had tried and failed to help – and sometimes, by spirits they want nothing to do with. They are easy enough to deal with, though. The burned spirits eagerly follow their souls after everything's been explained, and even the grumpy grandfather goes away when Harry tells him to, and the girls, once everything is said and done, are happy to go. It's easy, and somewhat rewarding, even if the resulting awe Harry somehow ends up receiving is a little worrisome. It still feels like cheating to him, even more so now that the Hallows are seeping into his very being.

What's most annoying about the whole thing, is that Mrs. Newman didn't just spread the word about Harry's abilities, which are somewhat more precise than those of other mediums. She also apparently told everyone about the pendant Harry had made for Laura – the pendant which worked perfectly in way no cross or David's star or pentagram did. And now, in result, almost every medium Harry meets wants one – or put in an order for several.

"It's not for me," many of them say. "But sometimes, while working, I run into others with the gift and not all of them take it too well." There are a couple who want it for their children, and some rare few who want it for themselves, but the fact remains that most of them simply want it.

But Harry can't – and won't – make them just like that. "I'm sorry," he says, over and over again. "That symbol is _mine_. I gave one to Laura because I met her, I liked her and I believe she needed it. But I won't start infusing pendants with my own power and spiritual protection and then handing them out to strangers. I'm sorry, but it just doesn't work like that."

Some understand, others don't, and few ask if they would work if someone other than Harry made them. All of them want to know what it means, and when Harry doesn't explain, they get annoyed. In the end, all of them leave without a shred of silver, but couple take with them a sketch of what the Mark of the Deathly Hallows looks like, intending to make some themselves. Harry doesn't mind, and if the pendants they make do manage to offer some protection, it's fine with him. But he's been selfless for all his life and the power of the Master of Death is not something you play charity with.

"I believe you have started a new trend within the community of your colleagues," Mycroft notes to him later on, after having commandeered Harry's sofa with his easy manner, his umbrella and his laptop. Horatio had after that commandeered Mycroft's feet as the perfect thing to curl around for a nap, but it doesn't seem to bother the man much, as he types into the laptop. "Look at this, my dear."

"The… Split Circle Triad?" Harry reads with some measure of disbelief, from a website with a dark blue background and what looks like instructions on how to make a Mark of the Deathly Hallows, and why it worked the way it did. It included symbolism about circles and trinity and unity and what it meant to split them apart – something about interrupting spiritual balance in harmonious ways and simply cutting the wearer of such pendant from the nether. Also, the symbol can be drawn in a single line with only crossing an earlier line twice, which is somehow symbolic too.

"I'm curious. Are they at all correct in their assumptions?" Mycroft asks, while Harry sits beside him to take a closer look at the website. Apparently, number two symbolises separation, among other things.

"No, not really," Harry answers. The whole thing is so well researched and theorised though, that it actually seems somewhat plausible. "It's actually called the Symbol of the Deathly Hallows," he says. "The circle, triangle and line symbolise three different objects."

"Indeed?" Mycroft says. "And what are these objects, these Deathly Hallows?"

"Hmm… Nothing you need to concern yourself with," Harry answers, and smiles as the man gives him an exasperated look. "Don't look at me like that, Bastard. I need to have some secrets from you."

"Do you indeed, hm?" the man asks, closing the laptop and drawing Harry to his side with an arm winding its way around the wizard's waist. "I understand – after all it is not as if you will ever learn everything there is to know about me," Mycroft muses and then gives him a look. "There is something I would like to know, if you would feel inclined to share with me."

"Ask me, and I'll see if I'll feel inclined to share," Harry answers with some amusement, glancing down at Dexter who had come to lean insistently against his knees, jealous of the attention he is sparing for Mycroft. He pats the dog consolingly, if somewhat distractedly.

The man gives him a fleeting smile before turning serious. "From what you have told me, I've gathered that you were not the only one crossing from one reality to another – and, obviously, that the differences between our two realities are mostly limited to your kind, your presence in one reality, and absence in this one. I also believe that you were not the only one, but that there were quite many of your kind crossing over. What I have not been able to deduce is the reason. Why were you going from one reality to another," he trails away thoughtfully and then lifts one eyebrow. "Was it some form of colonizing? Or evacuation?"

"All this and you say you don't know?" Harry answers, amused, scratching Dexter's neck.

"Evacuation then," Mycroft says, satisfied. "From what? War? Global disaster?"

Harry smiles faintly, sadly, leaning back against the elder man's arm. "There was a war, but that ended a couple of years back. No, it was a disease," he finally answers. "There was a plague, no… a pandemic. No one knew where it started or how, some thought it was the muggles, the… non-magical kind, who started it. Either that, or the other magical Beings, for being jealous. It doesn't really matter where it came from. All that mattered is that it affected only us, and that in couple of years it cut our population in half and that there was no cure. You caught the Haze, as it was called, and within a week you died." He shrugs.

Mycroft looks at him quietly for a moment, before relaxing a little against the backrest of the couch. "So, unable to find a cure, the healthy among your number devised a means to escape before they got infected. You were among the evacuees."

"I was one of the last to go – I was volunteering, helping with the evacuations," the wizard nods and chuckles. "They were so scared, the lot of them. Afraid of dying. I didn't really care, but a lot of those people were important to me, so I made sure that people got everything settled and then made their way through alright. I didn't… I didn't get the whole thing, really, but I've always had a weird relationship with Death, so I didn't fear the Haze all that much, I guess."

"But you said that you would've rather gone to where you were meant to go, than stay here," Mycroft says.

"Yeah. Because all the people I know, people who are my family, are there now," Harry answers, leaning his chin to the taller man's shoulder. Hermione and Ron had been among the last too – he can only hope that they had gotten through without trouble. Hope, and never imagine, as his dreams so insistently kept reminding him. Pointless, aimless dreams with nothing to offer, least of all closure.

"But I suppose things could've gone worse," the wizard muses, and smiles up to the man. "I doubt I would've found such a delightful Bastard there."

"Flatterer," Mycroft smiles, leaning to peck a kiss to his lips. "You're still not telling me everything, though."

"Hmm, no," Harry agrees cheerfully, while the Great Dane at his feet gives a deep sigh, and makes his way to the rug by the fireplace, apparently giving up the contest for attention. "Does it bother you?"

The other man chuckles. "Not as much as it honestly should," he says, his fingers tilting Harry's chin gently before he claims the wizard's lips in gentle kiss – and then in one with greater intent and insensitivity. Harry hums with pleasure against the man's mouth, grinning slightly at the decisively graceless way Mycroft tests his barriers and sucks gently on the man's tongue. In that, in kissing, Mycroft is as helplessly human as the rest of them – soft, wet, intimate and, no escaping it, the slightest bit messy.

"Now, the question remains whether you wish to go through the usual methods of courtship and make our _first time special_ , as they say, or whether…" Mycroft trails away, thumb gently running over Harry's moist lips, softening the way he makes the whole thing sound like some sort of silly leisure pursuit other people had.

"Or whether you can convince me into bed right now, without romantic dates and ceremonies?" Harry asks, grinning and gently nibbling at the pad of the man's thumb as it pressed gently against his teeth. "I suppose I like you well enough, Bastard."

"High praise indeed," Mycroft answers with amused tilt of his eyebrows and a long suffering smile, before kissing him again, deeper than before. Harry laughs a smothered chuckle against the man's lips, wrapping his arms around the man's shoulders and then tugging him down with him. Mycroft resists. "No, no. I did not buy you a five hundred pound bed so that our first time together may christen your sofa," the man grumbles against his lips, while gently shooing Horatio away with a nudge of his foot.

"I knew you had ulterior motives," Harry laughs, but stands up at the man's insistent tugging. There is something wrong with the whole thing – with Mycroft leading him into his own bedroom when it was really supposed to be the other way around. But then again, the man had acted like he owned the entire block of flats since the get-go.

By the time Mycroft loosens his own tie and throws it haphazardly to the floor, it rather stops mattering though.

 

* * *

 

Sometime later, most of which was quite enjoyable, educating and a bit surprising too, Harry lay lazily on Mycroft's somewhat sweaty back, smiling goofily to himself. It had been a long while, after all. Long, longer, and eons, depending on which perspective he looks at it from, and he has missed the sheer physicality of relationships like the one he is quite happily building with the man. Even if it isn't quite what he had expected, as far as doing things in the privacy of a bedroom went.

"You lazy bastard," he sighs to himself, but can't honestly feel too annoyed about it.

"Mmm. I'm afraid not all of us have the bodies of twenty year olds," Mycroft hums into the pillow, his back rising and descending with his breath under Harry's cheek.

"Yeah, no, that's not an excuse for barely participating," Harry answers, grinning and shifting so that he can nuzzle his nose against the back of the man's neck.

"You didn't mind. You don't mind," the man says confidently, turning his head a little and glancing at Harry from the corner of his eye, with smile tugging at his lips. "You liked it."

The wizard laughs, and then relaxes upon the man's body, too tired to do more than endure the body heat between them. "Can't deny that," he murmurs, closing his eyes. He does have something of a bad habit of wanting to be useful, and with Mycroft magnanimously throwing away all attempts of running the show – or indeed, doing much of _anything_ – and instead letting Harry do the work, he had done just that.

It had been… weird. And nice. And very Bastard-like, really – not as much submitting as deigning not to waste any energy, at all, and still get a due share of the benefits from it nonetheless.

Harry giggles to himself, before forcing himself to push his weight from his lover's back. Mycroft hums with displeasure, making him giggle again. "Sorry, I'm thirsty," the wizard says. "Going to get a glass of water or something – and then I'll be right back. Do you want anything?"

"For you not to move. Can't you summon it?" the man grumbles.

"I could, but before I get myself under control, I might as well end up summoning half of the Thames along with the glass," Harry sniggers to himself, and presses another kiss to the man's bare shoulders. "I'll be right back."

Without bothering to try and figure out where his jeans or boxers had gone to – there is something like his jeans peaking from underneath the bed, but he's too lazy and feeling too good to bother picking it up – Harry heads out of the bedroom in his birthday suit. Then, seeing a strange man lounging on his sofa with hands covering his ears and decisively pained look about his pale face, the wizard turns around, picks the jeans up after all, and tries again.

"Hi," he says to the man, who blinks his eyes open and then looks down at him – which he does surprisingly well, considering that the man is lying down and way below Harry's eyelevel. "So. What the hell?" Harry asks, directing the words more at Horatio and Dexter than at the man. Mostly because right then he's somewhat incapable of trying for more complicated sentences like, _who are you, how did you get in, do I need to call the cops_ and _you have twenty seconds to explain your existence in my living room before I throw you out of the window_.

Utterly unapologetic, Dexter wags his tail, and Horatio goes back to sleep.

"Did you stop?" the dark haired man asks, very carefully uncovering his ears. "Please tell me you stopped."

"Obviously," Harry answers with a twitch of an eyebrow. How long has the man been there, in his living room, listening in? Does Harry need to get the Elder Wand and attempt an obliviate or two?

"Yes. Yes, of course. Oh, thank God," the man says with a deep sigh of heartfelt relief, and swings himself up and to a seated position. He gives Harry a look that's equal parts amazement and disgust, with a hint of utter disbelief wedged somewhere in between. It's the sort of look that sums up the words _how could you_ perfectly. "I commend you for your energy," he says, and it doesn't sound at all like a compliment – and not much like an insult either. More like something someone says to a dog or a cat, really, when they have done something particularly clever.

Harry narrows his eyes. It's something he's yet to test, but he suspects he can summon the Elder Wand without a wand to summon with. It might be worth the risk this time. "What do you want?" he asks, because he doesn't care who the man is, or how he had gotten in – Mycroft has proven to him more than clearly that anyone can get in anywhere with little bit of effort. All he wants is the man to leave.

"To talk with…" the man makes a haphazard motion at Harry's bedroom, and grimaces slightly, shuddering. "I am all for creative methods of alleviating boredom, but there is something very wrong about listening your own brother _getting it on_." He says the last words like they are particularly nasty and maybe should be made illegal by law.

"Then you should have made yourself scarce and made an appointment like a normal person," Mycroft answers, opening the door Harry had closed, and walking in, wearing somewhat crumbled trousers and a very wrinkly and possibly ruined button up shirt. He glares at the pale man before looking at Harry and smiling wryly. "I apologise for my brother. He has no sense of personal boundaries."

"So I see," Harry answers, turning to look at the pale man with greater interest. His mental image of Sherlock Holmes had been drawn mostly from Sherlock Holmes the Senior, and this man is nothing like him. Tall and thin and dark haired sure, but there the similarities run out. Harry can see some of the family resemblance between Mycroft and Sherlock, though – the dark hair, the eyes, and something about the cheek bones, though they had obviously taken after different relatives below that.

"How did he know he'd find you here? How does he even know… here?" Harry asks.

"I asked Mycroft's name-confused assistant," Sherlock answers with a disgusted huff, while it was barely worth saying. And it probably wasn't.

"So, you've conceded to returning to the United Kingdom," Mycroft says, smoothing hand uselessly along the collar of his ruined shirt.

"Yes, I have," Sherlock answers, crossing his feet and glaring at his brother. "He's here, Moran's here, and it's the perfect time to trap him."

"And you need my resources, of course. As well as information and, possibly, a willing and authentic bait. Right," Mycroft sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. "How is it that this could not wait until morning?"

"He knows I'm here, and he knows I'm after him – I know he's after me. If he figures that I'm more onto him than he thinks I am, he might take off again. I need to… be careful," Sherlock grimaced. "Whatever's done, it has to be done now, not tomorrow. I might not – _we_ might not get this change again. If he's given the chance to run, we'll never see him again."

Mycroft sighs again, sitting down on one of Harry's armchair and glancing up at the wizard thoughtfully. "I apologise, my dear, but he is quite right – this cannot wait," he says with a sad smile. "I hope you forgive me."

"After all that? I'll let you get away with murder," Harry laughs softly. As it was, he has more or less expected it anyway, and prepared himself for it. Mycroft's duties are important, more important than Harry can easily grasp or even wants to, really. He's already figured that if their thing became a permanent arrangement, he would have to endure sudden dismissals and disappearances, long absences, midnight calls, late nights and possibly assassination attempts and who knows what else. He's pretty okay with it all, though.

"Hmm… I suppose you would," Mycroft muses with smug superiority, and reaches out his hand to take Harry's. He kisses the wizard's knuckles gently, while on the sofa Sherlock makes faint, disapproving noises. "Though, of course…" Mycroft hums. "You could come with us. I suspect it will be quite an interesting night, all things considered. Your abilities could be useful."

"Oh? What sort of an interesting night are we talking about?" Harry asks curiously, leaning onto the chair and tangling his fingers with Mycroft's

"Obviously we'll arrange Mycroft's kidnapping. He's the only bait that will do any good," Sherlock snorts with a pained look about his face. "Can you please not do that in company? And isn't he a bit too young for you, Mycroft? What would Mummy say?"

Mycroft ignores him, and instead smiles up to Harry. "As he says," he agrees, and rubs a finger along the back of Harry's hand. "What do you say, my dear? You have a… thing with kidnappings, after all. Several, even. To see it all in action would be… fascinating."

"Oh, it would, hm?" the wizard answers with amused smirk. "Now who's the flatterer?"

"Oh god," Sherlock mutters with disgust, slapping his hands over his ears and starting to hum something along the lines of "Not hearing this, I am not hearing this…"

"Sensitive fellow, your brother," Harry notes with amusement.

"You have no idea," Mycroft agrees with a shake of his head.


	10. Chapter 10

 In the end, Harry's part in the scheme of the Sherlock Brothers is minimal. He and Mycroft brandish themselves as bait for a couple of hours in a painfully public outing, a dinner in a horribly expensive restaurant and a walk afterwards, noticeable and seemingly carefree. Later Harry can't quite remember at what point in the park they’d been taken down – it was so smoothly and unnoticeably done, that even in his memories later on his awareness merely slips into darkness without him paying much mind.

He doesn't wake up until it's all over. "They knew of you. Not all, obviously, not even as much as I know, but they knew your reputation as a medium and suspected that it wasn't all there was to it," Mycroft explains later, as Harry fights the tranquilizers in order to wake up fully, in a room he doesn't know but which seems comforting. It smells familiar – it smells like the Bastard. "They didn't dare to risk it."

It makes sense – it's what Harry would've done. They, whoever _they_ are – or were, at this point past tense is probably more accurate – had probably suspected that they couldn't just snag Mycroft without Harry making trouble, and they couldn't leave him either, not knowing how well Harry can trace people – and, at this point, there is no place on earth Mycroft could hide from him. Or be hidden. Logical to bring Harry with – and keep him out cold and harmless throughout.

"So," Harry speaks, knowing already that he's going to slur probably for an hour or so, and not really caring. Self-respect is a nice thing to be able to ignore, and the fading haze of the tranquilizers help him a long way there. "'at 'appened? An' 'ere are 'e? 'erlock?"

Mycroft, thankfully, seems more than capable of deciphering the slurring. "We are at my apartment. Well, one of them," he says, one hand carding through Harry's hair, other holding his pocket watch. The man peers down at it with a calm, somewhat amused expression. "Sherlock is currently not here – he's being chewed out by your friend, Inspector Lestrade and, in approximately ten minutes John will arrive at the station, where he will no doubt proceed to punch Sherlock. I have already arranged there to be a medic in the station, to take care of him in case John breaks his nose and feels uninspired to help him afterwards."

Harry blinks up at his lover, vaguely realising that he's lying down on a sofa – with his head in Mycroft's lap, and his feet on top of a pillow. It's a very nice place to be, in more ways than one. His own sofa is nowhere near as spacious, for one, or so soft – or has Mycroft in it, stroking his hair. "Huh," Harry says, blinking. "'m 'ensing you not tellin' me 'at 'appened," he slurred, but not with annoyance. He was entirely too comfortable and too loose to be annoyed. And a bit too high.

Mycroft smiles, closing the watch with a snap and looking down at him. "The procession of events was fairly linear. We were captured, you were kept unconscious – they threatened me by threatening you, trying to make me reveal Sherlock's position, which I obviously did not reveal. At the crucial point, Sherlock arrived with the cavalry, as it was. Or, to be more truthful, he gave Scotland Yard bit of a bomb scare, and in the attempt of trying to stop a terrorist attack, they ended up taking down the last of a Britain's greatest criminal empire. And saving our lives, though they were not in any real danger."

Harry snorts softly at that. He would bet, given half a chance, that they had been in danger, perilous, nerve wrecking danger, and that Mycroft would never confirm it. "'astard," Harry mumbles at the man, lifting a limp hand and clumsily taking hold of the man's tie. "'y aren' 'e in the 'tion?"

Mycroft blinks. "Why aren't we at Scotland Yard?" he confirms and Harry nods. Considering that they had probably been held hostage and would've been tortured or something, it would've made sense that the police would've wanted to have a chat with them. Why isn't Harry at a hospital, for that matter?

"I do not make appearances at police stations, and I figured that you wouldn't be much use to anyone before you woke up," Mycroft answers gently freeing Harry's grip on his tie, and grasping his hand instead. "You have been seen to by a specialist, mind you. The tranquilizer used should have no ill effects, once it runs its course. I have observed that you do not have any particular fondness for hospitals, so I figured that you might as well recover somewhere comfortable. And in good company."

"'astard," Harry says again, this time with a lopsided grin.

Mycroft smiles. "It is not myself only that I mean," he admits, and glances away from Harry, and to the floor beside him. Confused, Harry glances down again, to find Dexter and Horatio lying in front of the couch, both alertly looking up at him. "I took the incentive of having them brought here," the man slowly easing his fingers through Harry's wild hair says, and Harry notes that Mycroft, unsurprisingly, has his feet tugged beneath Horatio's flank.

"Than's," Harry slurs with a smile, reaching one hand and feebly patting Dexter's forehead. "Goo' boy," he mumbles, and the Great Dane closes his eyes, relaxing. "'ow lon' do I 'ave of 'e 'anquilis'er?" Harry asks.

"You should start feeling more alert in a couple of hours," Mycroft answers.

"Mm…" Harry nods, and closes his eyes. It's not bad, as medical conditions go. Nothing like poisoning, having bones removed, breaking bones, or carrying a foreign soul in one's forehead. He can handle a bit of tranquil and paralysis. "'m not 'elping you wi' kidnappin's again," he says dully. "e'cept to resq'."

"Yes, I believe that would be for the best," Mycroft agrees.

He sits there, stroking Harry's hair, for the entirety of the two hours until the drug runs its course, and Harry can move and speak normally again. Harry doesn't feel like getting up just yet, though, and Mycroft doesn't move until he does. Except to stretch himself out on the couch beside him, but Harry definitely doesn't mind that.

It's either early morning or evening when Harry wakes up – he's lost hours in between, but that's not too surprising, considering that he’d spent who knows how long tranquilised and hadn't really known what time of day it was when he had woken with his head in Mycroft's lap. He doesn't really care though – time for him is an abstract thing, these days.

There is nothing abstract about the warm body curled around him from behind, or the weight of Mycroft's arm around his waist, or in the soft huff of warm breath against his neck, or the way Mycroft instantly knows he's awake, and bids him hello with a kiss to the side of his throat. "Feeling better, my dear?"

"Yes, much," Harry admits, turning a little and smiling. He likes this – the quiet little niche in the universe that Mycroft's arms close him in. "Hi, Bastard. How's Sherlock's nose?"

"Well and truly broken I imagine, but I cannot be sure. I shut off my mobile hours ago – yours as well."

Harry lifts an eyebrow at that and turns around completely, to press against the man's chest. "You did, huh?" he asks, fully aware of how very special that is. For Mycroft the instant communication of a phone and such is probably as important as the air he breathes. "What if something important happens?"

"Enyo will be more than capable of informing me of it in that case," Mycroft answers, smiling. His hair is a bit of a mess and there is a soft, rested look about his face. He's been sleeping too, Harry assumes, but it's something else about it. Like some subtle, ever present weight had been lifted and it was only noticeable in its absence. It's a good look on the man, the relaxed smile and the heavy lidded eyes.

And instantly, Harry knows why. Three years, Mycroft's brother had spent not only pretending to be dead, but hunting down a criminal organisation. It had never really been said, but Harry can see it now, can backtrack it. Sherlock's nemesis, and most of the summoning Harry had done for Mycroft, techs and businessmen, agents and who knew what else, people who had done something and ended up dead for it. He's gotten so used to it, so much so that he hadn't even thought that, really, there was something a bit odd about it all, people getting sniped and assassinated and burned to smithereens in the _UK_ of all places. And the marathon session of summonings, the hunt for lost information and to stop the leak…

Harry blinks, and looks at Mycroft more seriously. Some, he knows, some of the summoning had nothing to do with whatever mission Sherlock Holmes had been on, but yes, most of them did. Therefore it wasn't just Sherlock, but Mycroft too who had been on a mission. A mission, which, at it's worst, had sent the man into days and days of sleeplessness, and eventually to crash on Harry's bed. Now, it is over, and more than that, Sherlock is back, and Mycroft, who does care for his brother and worries for him constantly, can relax.

The realisation of it, as soon as it comes, fades away, unheeded and unimportant. Shaking his head, Harry leans in and pecks a close-mouthed kiss to the corner of his Bastard's mouth, and then sits up. Mycroft frowns with displeasure, but lets him, shifting up himself.

"I suspect you wish to go home?" the man asks.

"Just the bathroom," Harry says, and glances around. Horatio and Dexter snore away beside the radiator underneath the window while Mycroft's apartment spreads all around him, foreign and familiar and interesting. No, he's in no hurry to leave, not before he's snooped through everything as keenly as Mycroft's snooped through his place. "And I wouldn't say no to something to drink, it tastes like dead things in my mouth."

"Then I will make some tea. The bathroom is through there," Mycroft says, pointing. "Do you want something to eat, perhaps?"

"Nah, I don't think I can keep anything more solid in just yet, maybe later," Harry says, and as the man flashes him a slight, worried frown and looks a bit guilty all the while, the wizard grins. "No need to look like that," he says.

"If I had not suggested that you joined me in Sherlock's trap, then you wouldn't have –"

"No, no. Really, you don't need to apologise now," Harry repeats and then grins a feral smile at the man. Had Sherlock not interrupted them when he had, they'd probably still be in Harry's bedroom, and despite feeling a little dizzy and having something of a headache, Harry's nothing if not looking forward to picking up from where they had left off. "Trust me; I'm already going to make you pay for it. _Dearly_."

Mycroft blinks at him, first worried, then confused, and then with a slight flush coming to his cheeks. Coughing, the man looks away, standing up and smoothing a hand over the wrinkled front of his shirt. "Very well," he says, trying for calm and collected and falling short. "I… I shall put the tea on, then,"

"Get me some aspirin while you're at it, would you, Bastard?" Harry asks with a smile, and heads to the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

Something's changed. It almost seems like the whole of London is suddenly more colourful, livelier – more exciting than before – and it's all thanks to one Sherlock Holmes. His return from "death" makes the front pages, and people talk about it on the street corners and in cafes, and Harry realises that Holmes hadn't just been something in the circle of his acquaintances, but he had been somewhat famous. Mostly, because of his and the Scotland Yard's triumph over the nameless criminal organisation Sherlock's nemesis had ruled, and then because of his dramatic death, but also because, somehow, Sherlock Holmes had been involved in just about every major and minor crime investigation, a whole lot of private investigations and he had several royals indebted to him.

Sherlock was, according to Mycroft, the best in the business. And, apparently, everyone knew it.

"Mostly thanks to Doctor Watson, of course. Him and his blog have quite the widespread readership," the man muses. "I believe he's been offered numerous book deals and some movie deals as well over the years. He's turned them all down so far, however."

In the small group of Harry's acquaintances, Sherlock's return is all they talk about for a while – several coffee breaks with molly is spent mostly gushing over the whole thing, while the woman went from being angry at Sherlock and sympathetic towards John, to being relieved and happy and then knowledgeable, because _of course_ Sherlock Holmes would do something like this.

"He hadn't been to Bart's yet, but it's only a matter of time," she informs him, with a little bit of cream foam on her upper lip. "He always does, after all."

"Oh. Why? Actually, no, please, don't tell me," Harry quickly says, his mind already swarming with plausible and implausible possibilities, and figuring that easiest way to figuring out what was true or not would be to actually see it in action, and not really wanting that either. There was something about Sherlock that made Harry think that watching him from a distance and with a blast screen in between was really the best way to go about it.

Harry shakes his head. "Have you seen him yet?" he asks instead.

"No, but I saw John's re-opening blog. It was… colourful," she grins, and then digs out her mobile to show him. It is, indeed, very colourful. And explicit as far as curse words go. And more than a little smug about the fact that Sherlock's nose was, indeed, well and truly broken.

Harry snorts softly and shakes his head, making mental note to look into this blogging business. He can't really handle computers to save his life, but he hasn't really had any interest in trying to learn.

A couple of days later, Harry meets Lestrade at Scotland Yard for a small consultation – a couple of kids have gone missing, and Lestrade wants to know if they're dead and if so, where they are. The kids are still alive and Lestrade takes barely enough time to thank Harry before he rushes out, ordering another search, wider, more thorough, of the area where they had gone missing. While he goes, asking where the hell someone named Anderson is, Harry is left sitting in his office, not entirely sure if he's free to go yet.

"Hey, Mr. Medium?" a voice asks, and glancing up Harry sees the dark skinned female Lieutenant leaning to the office door's frame. "Did you know?"

"Did I know what?" Harry asks, lifting a single eyebrow at her, and giving her a wary look. She's the one who’d insulted Sherlock Holmes with the same name the Dursleys had called Harry, and ever since then Harry has done his best on every case to avoid her. At the station, though, it's harder and trying to slink out wouldn't be taken too well, so he endures it just this once.

"That the Freak wasn't dead," she says, and scowls at him as he glares at her.

"What's your name?" Harry asks her, instead of answering.

"Donovan – Sally Donovan," she answers, folding her arms and looking at him with narrowed eyes.

"Tell me, Sally Donovan, why do you call Sherlock Holmes that?" Harry asks, leaning a little back in his chair. "What is it that he did to earn that particular title?"

She lifts her eyebrows and then snorts. "You've never seen him on a crime scene. Give him a dead body and he gets a boner and a half. He's a freak, he's a psychopath – he gets off on the whole thing, on people killing each other and him getting the chance to it figure out. He finds it fascinating, that people do it, how they do it, how they try to get away and how he can bring them down. And one day just watching and seeing won't be enough for him, and he'll be the one leaving bodies behind for others to find."

Harry blinks, and then lifts his eyebrows in turn. "Huh," he says, folding his arms. "You think so?"

She thinks about it and then sighs. "Nah," she admits, and steps into the office, closing the door behind her. "I did. The first time I saw him, it was over the broken body if this sweet little kid, a seven year old little girl with golden hair who had been raped, gutted, and left in a dumpster. And god, he was so happy about it all, the freak, he was almost jumping up and down with glee, right there, on the crime scene."

"Okay," Harry mutters, and he can imagine it a bit too easily. "I can see how that would be… yeah."

"Yeah," Donovan agrees. "But, well. That was a while ago. Long before he faked his death, obviously, and long before he met John. And after that, after meeting John, he… became a bit better. Though you didn't hear it from me," she says and shakes her head. "Now though, he's definitely a freak forever. Doing that to John, jackass deserves more than having his nose broken."

"So, it really was broken," Harry asks, interested. Not that he didn't believe it before, but it doesn't hurt to have multiple sources.

"Yep. Right there," Donovan nods, pointing. "I'll regret my whole life not having my mobile at hand, I should've taken a picture." She shakes her head again and looks at him. "So. Did you know? Did you know he wasn't dead?"

Harry shrugs and stands up. "Not really my business one way or the other," he says, and gives her a look. "Just so you know, though. Sherlock might endure being called a freak, maybe he even finds it funny, the Holmes family is weird like that and with a few tries they take insults as compliments. But if you call me that even once, I will make sure you will never again sleep peacefully."

She blinks. "Duly noted," she says, folding her arms. "Could you really do that?"

"Oh yeah," Harry grins at her, walks past her, and out of the office.

 

* * *

 

Harry meets Sherlock for the second time nearly a week after the first time – and thankfully, no interrupted fun times are included. Before the meeting, Harry had suspected that it would happen with John there, maybe during one of their weekly doggy walks, but it doesn't. Instead, Harry meets John and Gladstone with Dexter and Horatio on Saturday as usual, and he meets Sherlock the day after. Not that the meeting with John had gone any easier without the world's only consulting detective there.

"Did you know?" was all John had asked, and Harry's guilty, apologetic sigh was all the answer he needed. Thankfully, the man hadn't felt inclined to punch Harry's nose out of order, but the look he had given had spoken volumes. Libraries, even.

"I knew about Sherlock's mission. Not all, but Mycroft told me some, and the ancestor I summoned in Sherlock's place told some more," Harry said to him. "I could… relate to that. Trust me, though, it wasn't easy, seeing you the way you were, and knowing that the source for all your angst was still, well. But some things are bigger than the unhappiness of one man."

John had sighed and not said anything else, but he hadn't walked out on Harry either, so maybe that was good. In a way Harry is sure that John understands, and not only does he understand, but he understands, accepts and had probably forgiven Sherlock and all the others involved the very second he had punched the detective. But John is a man with something of a temperament, and the personal hurt could and had overcome the logical part of his mind that had been trained as a soldier and served his country. It will take him a while, before he can ease down from that.

In the mean while though, Harry doubts the man can stray too far away from his long lost opposite piece of the puzzle that is Sherlock and John. The doggy date is short, not just because the slight gap of things that one had known and hidden from the other, but because John keeps glancing at his watch, his mobile, shifting anxiously and eventually getting up out of sheer nervousness, and heading back without saying anything – too uneasy to stay longer than his concern for Gladstone's health and exercise demanded.

How Sherlock manages to pry himself away the following day, Harry isn't sure, but the man does, breaking into Harry's apartment in the early hours of the morning, and planting himself securely on the corner of Harry's couch. Harry finds him there when he comes out of his morning shower, but doesn't bother with more than an annoyed glare and irritated huff, too used to having Mycroft do the very same thing to really feel upset.

Besides, the miserable look Sherlock wears so poorly, the reddened nose and the band aid over it, make it very hard to stay mad at the man.

"Alright, then," he says instead, after getting something to wear, cleaning his fogged glasses and drying his hair. Sherlock is watching him with steady, slightly mistrusting eyes and he knows that it’s not a social visit. With this man there is probably no such a thing as social visits. "What do you want?"

Sherlock doesn't answer at first; instead he fiddles with the bag he’d brought with him and shifts where he sits. "According to the records my brother made for you, your name is Harry James Potter, you were born the thirty first of July in nineteen eighty, to Jane and John Potter, and that you are a medium. Not all of that is correct, there is no chance that you are anywhere near your thirties and the names of your supposed parents are so general as to be fairly painful."

"The Bastard had to make most of that up. My official records were the carrot on the stick when he hired me to work for him, and he didn't know much about me at the time," Harry shrugs. "What of it?"

Sherlock blinks at him, lifting his eyebrows. "…the Bastard?" he asks suspiciously.

Harry grins faintly at that, shrugging again. "He didn't tell me his name, so I made one up for him. For months the Smarmy Bastard was all I knew him as," he explains without too much guilt. He's rather fond of the name these days, and really, nothing else would ever fit Mycroft so well, not in his opinion. "He's probably always going to be the Smarmy Bastard for me."

"The Smarmy Bastard?" Sherlock asks, and suddenly he looks absolutely delighted. "Brilliant! And he lets you call him that?"

"Doesn't seem to mind, I suppose," the wizard answers modestly and then becomes serious again, because there is a reason why Sherlock is there, and Mycroft, despite being the man's brother, is not it. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

The man says nothing at first, and from anyone else that pause could've been taken as hesitation. The Holmes brothers though use pauses to gauge reactions and plot the conversation ahead, like masterful chess player plotting the future moves by dozens and hundreds. "I know there are supernatural things in the world. Mummy has a type of ESP which made my and Mycroft's childhood… difficult," he says thoughtfully, still reading Harry more than he's really speaking, using every word as a way to test the scales and see if he can tip the balance. "And I have met several mediums, psychics, espers and whatnot. Mycroft has the bad habit of employing them."

"Alright," Harry says and gives him a sympathetic smile. He has a feeling about this, now. Mycroft can accept the existence of the supernatural for the simple reason that he can, probably in one sitting, think of half a hundred uses for it all. Mycroft doesn't bother with hows or whys because he is, on the inside, a believer of the result, and the result alone. Sherlock is obviously not like that at all – not according to what Harry has heard of him, and not according to what he can see now. Sherlock is the believer of cause and effect and he needs to know the how and the why, and as precisely as possible.

It's all in the man's face – Sherlock is itching to dissect Harry and see what makes him tick.

"So," Harry says, leaning against the hand rest of one of his armchairs and folding his arms. "You've heard of me from the Bastard and maybe from John, and now you want to know how it works, how I can do it. You're here to figure me out."

Sherlock says nothing, just stares at him. Harry smiles, and shakes his head. "You should be home, Sherlock. With John," he says, and when the man frowns, opening his mouth to object, Harry snorts. "Yeah, I know. You're not like that, but you still broke his heart. Hell, you broke the hearts of everyone who knows you, with the exception of the Bastard who knew you weren't really dead. You should be there, mending the bridges you nearly burned, not here trying to see if you can get into my head." If it was him, he certainly wouldn't have given a crap about Harry, no, he would've been on his hands and knees begging for forgiveness from the people he had fooled so badly.

"Tch," Sherlock answers, shifting where he sits. "I see why he likes you. Mycroft that is. He has certain tastes, and you didn't fit them, not really, medium and super powers aside. I see it now, though," he gives Harry a disgusted look. "You have _intuition_."

"Don't say it like it's a curse word," the wizard says with a laugh, and walks over to sit beside the man, lifting his feet onto the coffee table and crossing his ankles comfortably. "You have time to try and needle me into a confession later – I'm certainly not going anywhere," Harry says. "So why are you here, really?"

The man doesn't answer, and when he looks away it is actually real hesitation that makes him do it, not the need to plan more moves in the verbal chessboard.

"Let me guess; John's a bit different," Harry answers. "He's watching different shows on telly and his evening rituals have new steps and have lost old ones. And of course there's Gladstone too, right? You're not the same either, of course, you've been out, you've seen things, experienced things, and John doesn't quite get the whole thing. And you're realising that not only were you gone for three years, but you also _missed_ those three years. Life went on without you, and the seams don't fit. That niche you had with John, it isn't as comfortable and snug as it used to be."

The man gives him a look which is equal parts frustration and disgust. Harry grins at him. "Trust me, I've got enough experience with things like this. You have no idea how many widows and widowers come to me, to talk with their lost husbands and wives, only to find that they don't quite remember them right, and that the life they've been leading in the meanwhile isn't so easily understood or accepted by their loved ones, and that somewhere along the way, they have drifted apart even while thinking that nothing's changed." He shrugs his shoulders. "It's not quite the same, but I bet it's something like that. You came here, because it it's one of the questions nagging in the back of your head, and it's easier to do something, to take the initiative, than just sit and think and know that you can do nothing."

"Alright, if you know so much then you know what I should do," Sherlock says expectantly, folding his arms with a huff. "Tell me, oh high and mighty medium, what should I do?"

"Go home," Harry answers simply. "Take Gladstone out. Phone or text John, and meet him during his lunch break. Talk. Listen."

Sherlock huffs with disgust. "Boring," he says.

"I know. And it's annoying too, difficult and excruciatingly awkward. But if you leave this thing to fester – and John's the sort of man who will let his hurts fester if that will make it easier to move on – it will come back, worse than it is now," the wizard says. "And that niche you had with John, it's still there, you just need to compromise a little to fit again."

"I hate psychology," Sherlock mutters to himself and looks away. Harry just shrugs amiably and watches with interest, as the man turns to his bag, to dig something out of it. Something round, wrapped in white wrapping paper. "Mycroft doesn't make mistakes, not with his employees and definitely not with his… companions," the detective says, and hands the ball shaped thing to Harry. "But _I_ need a confirmation."

"Okay," Harry mutters, and unwraps the surprisingly heavy thing which is most definitely not a ball. No, not a ball at all, he muses, while turning the white, clean human skull to face himself. "Right," he says, determinately not thinking about where Sherlock could've gotten a skull from, or why was he carrying it around in a shoulder bag like it was your common luggage. "What do you want to know?"

"Why he did it," Sherlock says simply, looking at the skull with mild frown.

Harry considers asking for more for a moment, to know what the man means, who the skull belonged to, and so forth. He decides against it, knowing it's like with Mycroft and his driver’s licence copies – and that the skull is really all he needs and that simple question like _why did you do it_ could unearth more than more detailed one could.

Swinging his feet down and settling the skull to the tea table, Harry seeks the ring, finding it easily in his jean pocket regardless of the fact that it had been in his hoodie pocket when he had gone to shower. He's used to the Hallows teleporting back to his person when he's left them behind, though, and merely slips the ring with the Stone onto his finger.

Shame is why Victor Trevor had killed himself, and Sherlock leaves almost immediately after getting his answer, taking the skull gently with him as he goes.

 

* * *

 

The buzz of Sherlock comes and goes and things settle – except they don't, not for Sherlock and John who fight and circle each other like a pair of wolves, looking for weaknesses, at least according to Mycroft, Molly and Lestrade. Harry doesn't really pay too much attention to it, except to listen when John feels like ranting about how impossible Sherlock is, and offer remarks to Sherlock who, in the guise of trying to mentally dissect the wizard, comes to him for advice. And, of course, endure Mycroft’s summation of the whole thing, and amusement about the fact that Sherlock, lifelong enemy of all things psychological, had found his counsellor in Harry of all people.

"Well, I always did know it would take someone from another world entirely," the man muses, with very badly disguised amusement and pleasure about the whole thing. Harry merely rolls his eyes at the man and orders him to pass the salt. The man is pleased though, in more ways than one, Harry knows as much. He doesn't say as much, but they both know that Sherlock's not really all there, not exactly as… level as most people, and it soothes Mycroft's mind that his brother has, somehow somewhere along the way, decided to open up.

Even if he had selected one of the worst persons for the job of being the one to open up to – and that in case of Sherlock Holmes, it wasn't as much opening up as it was Harry taking shots in the dark until he hit the latest thing that Sherlock was having problems with. Emotional problems, usually.

Sociopath, they called him. Very Merlin damned confused, is what Harry prefers.

But, as consuming as Sherlock with his problems is, he is just a little bit in between, and for the most part Harry's days are still full of summonings, of dead souls and spirits and now occasionally of mediums, with the new flavour of some psychics and even one esper child thrown in. Harry is beginning to realise slowly that his original estimation that the world he's stumbled into has no magic is wrong. It has no magic like he knows it, no hidden magical world with its own laws and governments. Instead there are shadows living in the midst of the magicless normalcy, and they had decided different names for themselves. No witches, or wizards, but telepaths and readers, clairvoyants and espers, ESP users, and what not. And, the more Harry meets them, the more he's starting to realise that he's barely scratched the surface.

The esper child is an eye opener, really. Jake Lionel, an eleven year old thin little boy with terrifyingly blue eyes and his eyes set on the continent, where he watches his runaway father living a happy life with his new wife and new – normal, non-supernatural - kids. There is little Harry can do about the kid, abilities like that aren't something he's familiar with in either of the worlds he knows, and really he's not entirely sure why his mother had brought the boy to him, to a medium, before the mother, Alisa Edgar, tells him.

"There was another esper in our family, according to the family lore – my great great grandmother," she explains. "She wasn't like Jake, she could only see through walls and such, but I was still hoping that maybe she could offer some advice on how to control this. We've tried everything from meditation to hypnosis so far and nothing's really done the trick…"

After arranging the talk between Gwyneth Barrymore and her two descendants, Harry takes a long moment to think, to really think about the world he's living in now. There is more to it than he's realised. No Diagon Alley, no Hogwarts, but something. Something special.

Something that he doesn't quite feel connected to, but still, which he is suddenly a _part of_. And not just part of, but becoming pretty well known for in the circles of people with varying supernatural powers. He's different from them, he has gifts and he follows rules they don't have, but still. He is a medium here, first and foremost, and after months and months it's really starting to feel… right.

"Did you ever have a career in your world?" Mycroft asks him one day, as they fix dinner at the man's downtown apartment – which has an infinitely better kitchen than Harry's flat does, as well as better stocked fridge. _Fridges_ , even. "You were a little over twenty, right? Were you studying for something, perhaps?"

"For a while. I was intending to become an Auror – a law enforcement officer," Harry answered. He could've became one fresh from the war, Kingsley had offered the position to him happily, with the Chief's chair looming soon ahead. Harry had declined. "I went through some training, I even had a personal trainer for a while, but… I didn't become one." He shrugs his shoulders, thinking back. Aurors had been… not quite what he had thought. "Too much politics," he explains.

"A law enforcement officer, indeed? It doesn't quite seem like you," Mycroft notes, while delicately chopping some vegetables. "You're… I'd expect a person with your temperament to be a therapist of sorts."

"Well, that only came after lot of trial and error on this side," Harry snorts, thinking back to his first summonings, his first customers. "I was really more an Auror than I was anything else when I came through," he admits, looking down to the sauce he's stirring and frowning slightly. "Too much, I think."

Mycroft gives him a look, perceptive and all-seeing, detecting what Harry's not saying and aiming right at it. "What happened?" he asks. "The day you came to this world, the day you stumbled out from between worlds. What did you do, when you found yourself stranded?"

Harry takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "Stupidity," he answers. "I was confused, lost, irritated and a little scared. I knew instantly that something was wrong, but then, waking up naked will do that to you," he sighs, and maybe one day the memory will make a good joke, will make him smile. How he found himself lying on a street, naked as the day he had been born with only the Invisibility cloak to hide in, with the Wand he had left in Dumbledore's grave and the Ring he had forgotten in the ForbiddenForest on his finger.

The Deathly Hallows hadn't been willing to be left behind by their Master, and they hadn't allowed themselves to be abandoned since.

Mycroft says nothing, just looks at him expectantly, and Harry continues. "I looked for my people for a week or so. I got a bit ragged by the end of it, and I did some… not so good things to keep going. Stealing is easy with my powers and it was even easier to justify it to myself… but it still wasn't right. And the less I found, the more I started to realise that I was neither in the world I had left behind, nor the one I had been aiming for, the more I took. Things I didn't even need, like clothing and stuff. Eventually money too."

Mycroft frowns a little at that, turning to him. "What made you stop?" he asks quietly, and the undertone was there. Harry had stopped, after all, and not only had he stopped but he had turned himself into a homeless wretch overnight, and hadn't strayed from that unspoken vow since. And he never would.

"I did something unforgivable," Harry answers, hesitating and then turning the heat of the stove down, not wanting to burn the sauce. "I found a… woman, who was the living reflection of someone I know. A little older than I knew her, a little different, but still so, so much like her. She even had the same name," he sighs and smiles. "Hermione Granger. Back in my world, she was one of my best friends, a budding spell creator and one hell of a researcher. On this side, she's a very well paid lawyer."

He feels Mycroft's hand on his back and looks up, a little surprised to find the man so close. "What did you do, my dear?" the man asks, serious and understanding and probably already guessing most of it.

"I was… scared, desperate, too happy to see her and too willing to ignore the obvious, the differences and the fact that she didn't know me, that she was different, that she wasn't the witch I knew her as. And I… I didn't…" the wizard sighs and puts the spatula down, leaning into Mycroft slightly. "I wanted her to be able to help me so bad that I scared her. Really badly. I didn't take no for an answer, I told her she'd just forgotten, maybe her memory had been erased, that she just needed to try harder. I showed her what I could do, and I scared her half way to death. And when she tried to call the police, I stopped her."

"Harry…"

The wizard looked away. "Four days after I found her, I realised that there was terror in her eyes every time she managed to look me into the eye, and she rarely did. She was too strong to cry, but the tears were always there, in her eyes. She thought I was a psychopath, that I was going to kill her or worse. I… woke up, that is how it felt. I woke up, I realised what I was doing to her, I realised what _I_ was doing. I've never hated myself more." The memory of that woman, the Hermione Granger who wasn't Hermione, sitting across from him with stiff posture and terrified eyes, still makes him feel like he deserves to die.

"What happened to her?" Mycroft asks softly, rubbing a hand up and down along Harry's spine.

"I… I apologised, over and over, but by that time it was too late. She was scared to death, and the best thing I knew I could do, was to leave her alone and never see her again," Harry shrugs and smiles self-deprecatingly. "But I also knew I had done more than enough damage already. Four days she had been in my presence and so terrified for the most of it. It's enough to give a person mental scars, and I didn't want that, I didn't want her to become deathly terrified of young men showing interest in her or something like that. So I… I took it away from her, to give her peace of mind back to her. I made sure she would never remember me. Then I left."

Mycroft hums softly, pulling Harry to his chest and not saying a thing for a long moment, while Harry reached out and awkwardly stirred the sauce in the faint hope of salvaging it. "You stopped stealing," the taller man finally says. "Stopped using your powers."

"Well, I used them for survival, but in the smallest ways possible. To extend the food I had, to make my clothing warmer on colder nights, impervious to water… that sort of things. I tried to manage by honest ways, though, to buy the things I needed. Did my best trying to get jobs and whatnot, but it wasn't easy before the whole medium thing started. And, of course, before you swaggered your way into my life," Harry answers, and looks up to his lover's face, leaning his chin on the man's chest. "What do you think of my high moral fibre now?"

"I understand it better and respect it all the more," Mycroft assures with a small smile, and pecks a kiss to Harry's lips. "You need not expect judgement from me. I have done far worse things along my career, and will continue doing them for years to come."

"I know," Harry agrees and smiles.

They finish making their dinner, and then eat slowly, enjoying the fruit of their combined labour before retreating to Mycroft's comfortable living room, where Dexter and Horatio laze about. Harry's not surprised to find them curled together by the radiator, not only is he getting used to their habit, but he's also starting to become more aware of them – in the way he had been aware of Hedwig, long ago.

It's not all that surprising. Harry's been expecting it since he witnessed the miraculous calming effect the two had, and how they had started to become even more keen about the pain and suffering of the people around them. He knows that if he would take four year old Dexter and six year old Horatio to the vet, the vet would find them miraculously half as old as they really were. Magic was a kind thing like that, when it came to familiar bonds – kinder in this time, because before Horatio had been living what was probably his last year, and now he's growing ever stronger and younger. Even if not in any way more energetic, the lazy thing.

"Tell me honestly," Mycroft says, after starting a fire and settling down, with Harry's feet in his lap and the remote control for the telly in his hand. The telly is still shutoff – he won't turn it on except for the news, and that won't start just yet. "Do you think you could ever get to the world you wanted to go to?"

Harry looks up to him and then smiles. "No," he says, leaning back against the cushions and wiggling his toes slightly under Mycroft's hand. "It took twenty seven witches and wizards to open the pathway, and as many to maintain it. I could never manage it alone, even if I knew how. And I doubt anyone's looking for me, on the other side."

"Really?" Mycroft asks. "I was under the impression you had great many close friendships. A family, even."

"I did. But they won't go looking for me because they think I stayed behind, on my original world." It's more than likely, after all. Harry hadn't really wanted to leave his birth world. He had liked the place, and really, he hadn't been scared of the plague, the Haze. He had lost so many people than he had actually been looking forward to dying, and being reunited with them. Ron and Hermione had known that – as well as the fact that Harry had decided to go in the end not for himself, but for his friends, for the warriors from the war, for the Weasleys.

Harry had been among the last to go. Actually, he had been _the_ last. And maybe his stumble had been caused by that very thing, because the pathway had been collapsing and closing in, but still. For those on the other side – for Hermione and Ron who should've already been safely through… it would've looked like Harry hadn't even tried, that he had stayed back without ever entering the path. And thinking that his friends would've let him go, would've understood and wouldn't have tried to come back or get him – they would've let him do as he wanted, and go down with the other wizards and witches who had stayed behind, intending to face the Haze and their fates on their own terms…

Harry hadn't really allowed himself to think about it before – it was too painful to think that his loss could be rationalised so easily. Now though, now it's a soothing thought to have. Not that he's been abandoned – because that's not it at all. No, it's that his friends, where ever they are and whatever they are doing, probably have moved on from him. Moved on with their new lives, accepting his absence and, hopefully, being none too worse for it.

Harry himself might never get closure, never know how it all had gone, if it had worked, if the other world had accepted them and if they had managed to rebuild their lives. But the hope that the others had, and that him not being there wouldn't hurt them, that is nice. More than nice. It's comforting.

"You… you don't want to go anymore," Mycroft says softly, looking down to him. "No, you… you've, what, accepted this?"

Harry smiles up at him. It's one last lingering concern Mycroft has – that Harry would just jump ship and leave the reality the man belonged to. Of course, Mycroft would never say it out loud, but it is all there, and Harry is getting very good at reading the man, and the things he isn't saying. Maybe he is even building a sort of ESP about it. Shaking his head and still smiling, the wizard sits up and reaches to take the man's face in his hands, to kiss him.

Harry's life might not be what he had planned, his career might be as far from his plans as possible and he definitely hadn't planned for Mycroft, but that didn't mean it was bad. It was actually rather brilliant. Strange and exciting and a little unsteady and absolutely brilliant.

"Bastard," Harry murmurs, pulling back with wet lips and a tingling tongue, smiling. "Do you really need to watch the news?"

"No, I suspect they won't have anything I have yet to be informed of," Mycroft answers readily and drops the remote.


End file.
